The Fifty Move Rule
by N. Kitty
Summary: She had never known exactly which side of the chessboard he had really played. But now, in the midst of war, he would give her fifty moves to the truth.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possibly naughtiness. Warnings: Character death (though I wouldn't touch the Golden Trio) and HBP compliant (read: spoilers).

**Reviews:** Reviews are a writer's best friend.

**A/N:** I know that for those readers who have stayed with me through "Bullets & Fairytales", this may seem like a frightful (though short) diversion. Let me just clarify that I love writing strong female characters, whether they be cops, witches, or Sara Sidle. So, really, this isn't too much of a stretch. Promise.

**  
Chapter One**

It was an odd sensation, that of standing outside of her own body, detached, unfeeling. After all of these years of training, of preparation, she blindly engaged in all of those curses, deflecting the enemy at the same time she protected herself and those innocents around her. It didn't feel like it was actually her. _She didn't feel at all._

"We have to get out of here, Hermione! Gods, where is Harry? Hermione!"

She looked at Ron through the smoldering remains of Hogsmeade. He stood several meters from her, a beacon with his bright red hair, though his face was blackened from dirt and smoke. Several frightened children huddled around him, one girl bleeding from a gash on her arm, the others relatively unscathed. The sun filtered through the haze in patches, its illumination no match to that of the nearby fires, and the ominous Dark Mark that stained the sky above, its green light mocking them.

"Past Scrivenshaft's. Lupin was with him. I'll cover you. Just go!"

Ron paused, staring back at her and Lavendar, the injured girl a huddled mass at Hermione's feet. There were villagers and Order members around them, some barely visible through the smoke as they fought back, some of their comrades and friends scattered like broken dolls along the cobbled High Street. On the outskirts of the once quaint village, she could see the Death Eaters advancing like some army from hell, their silvery masks lit by the green light as they delivered the most unforgivable of curses.

The attack had been sudden, shifting the jovial atmosphere of Hogsmeade into a battlefield in mere minutes. Harry, Ron and Hermione had been researching a possible lead on one of the missing Horcruxes and the endless underground secret passages of Hog's Head. Lupin, who had explored some of these corridors with the other Marauders nearly two decades ago, agreed it would be worth further investigation.

Someone had known they would be here. That Harry would be in town that day. Someone close to them had given them over to Voldemort's army.

"I can't leave you, Hermione!"

The Death Eaters were getting closer. Hermione deflected another curse, sending back a slicing hex through the smoke at the offender as Lavender made some strange mewing sound at her feet.

"Choose another time to debate me, Ron! Bloody go!"

He stood staring at her for a moment, his blue eyes wide as he pleaded silently with her. A tug at his robes by one of his unwilling charges reminded him of the children around him. And Harry. He had to protect Harry. They had all agreed that mattered more than anything else, hadn't they?

As promised, she covered him as he led the children through the smoke, disappearing down the hopefully deserted alley between Scrivenshaft's and Gladrags.

"_Avada Kedavra!"_

Hermione screamed, the sound coming out choked as her throat suddenly constricted with intense fear. It was too close, she hadn't seen the black-cloaked figure disengage from the others and move towards her, and now that green flash of light was all that was left…

Her gasped name was the last thing that Lavender spoke. Hermione flung back a slicing hex at the Death Eater even as she felt the clammy hold of the other girl's arms loosen from around her right calf. Her friend was crumpling, lifeless, to the cold stone road, her eyes wide, but unseeing.

"Lavender! Oh, _Merlin_!" She fell to her knees on the cobble stones next to Lavender's unmoving form, her shaky hands touching the other girl's face, the reality of her death pushing the fierce, fighting Hermione back into her own body, back into the bleak starkness of their current situation.

She looked up in time to see the injured Death Eater raise his wand once again to her. The cloaked figure jerked in response to a curse thrown at him from an Order member hidden somewhere in the hazy smoke that was becoming even thicker as the buildings continued to burn around them. But the slicing hex still found her.

Hermione gasped as pain ripped through her side, under her parted robes against the left side of her rib cage. Blood instantly soaked through her plain white, button down school shirt, the crimson imprint visualizing the extent of her injury. She swallowed, her lips trembling at the sudden realization she was hurt. _Badly._

With shaky hands, she grabbed Lavender under the armpits, keeping low as she dragged the girl's lifeless body through the smoke to the nearest building, the area thankfully free of fire and other beings, good and bad. She pulled Lavender into a small dark inlet against the side of the building, propping her into a sitting position so they were both relatively hidden to the casual observer.

Hermione's breathing was shallow now, and her eyes were becoming wet, irritated by the smoke and burdened with the raw knowledge that she was dying. It was one of many things she had studied, had read about in her quest for knowledge. She was getting colder, even as the fire burned through the October sky. The blood was alternatively sticky and slick against her flesh, the cotton of her shirt rubbing abrasively into the wound. Light headed, she thought of Ron. How his blue eyes lit up when discussing Quidditch, his red hair so soft, the way his mouth felt when he had kissed her. _And her parents. _How they would miss her. All of those books, all of those things left to learn, to uncover, to _live_.

And Harry. The Boy Who Lived, who lived for them all. He had been so selfless, giving so much of his childhood, possibly even his own life so that good would prevail.

Hermione bit her lower lip, trying to quell the trembling as she looked at Lavender. She reached into the pocket of the other girl's robes, pulling out her wand. A tear burned its way down her soot-covered cheek as she tucked Lavender's wand inside her own robes. Several more tears followed as she stared at her fallen comrade for a moment, the emotion choking at her heart, battling the pain that coursed through her torso.

"I'm sorry I couldn't save you," she whispered. "I don't want to leave, but I owe it to Harry. And I owe it to you."

She regarded the other girl for a moment longer, willing herself the strength to move. She couldn't die here. She had to find Harry. She wanted to be by his side, to help him to the very end.

Swallowing down the pain, trying to ease the shakiness in her own body, she slipped out of the shadows of the inlet, cautiously moving into the eerily lit haze at the side of the building. She could still hear the sounds of battle, of hexes, curses and screams, but it all seemed so far away. It didn't help that she had become dizzy; everything seemed so light, distant…

Her knees gave out and she fell to her knees again, her breathing rushed. _Get up, get up…_

Even through the smoke, the sight of her was unmistakable. He had thought this area deserted, the best location to apparate himself and the boy back to the safe house. But here she was, covered with soot, with that unmistakable riotous mess of curls, her wand clutched in one hand, the other against the brick of the building next to them. She was turned away from them, but from her posture, he knew she was injured.

"Granger," the boy spoke from next to him, his voice low, but hard enough to reach her.

Hermione gasped at the sound of her name, turning even as her body protested vehemently at the sharp movement. Two Death Eaters stood in front of her in the haze, their silvery masks almost ethereal in their evil beauty.

Without thinking, she raised her wand swiftly, only to have the larger of the cloaked figures raise his hand and silently pull it from her. She sobbed, knowing this was the end.

Her school robes were parted, and he could see clearly the extent of her injury, the large crimson stain dark against her left side. Without attention, the girl would die.

"We need to leave," the boy spoke again, his voice low. The man ignored him, watching the unstable movements of Hermione, her head tilted even as her body wavered from her position on her knees. She was trying to place the voice; she recognized the boy, and surely would recognize him.

He strode forward, his Death Eater robes billowing around him in the smoke, the boy close behind him. Hermione flinched, but didn't turn away, facing upwards, her body still shaking with the onslaught of blood loss. She knew they would kill her, and she would try not to give them any more pleasure in her death. She would not show her fear.

He knelt down in front of her, nearly face to face save for the fact of his height. He reached one black gloved hand out to touch her soot covered cheek, smoothing away some of the dirt to reveal her pale flesh. She stared back at him with dark eyes, unblinking even as her lips trembled.

"You're coming with us," he told her, his silky voice almost a whisper. Her eyes widened as she recognized him, all of her memories regarding him, the past, Harry, Dumbledore…

"Professor!"

One gloved finger pressed against her cold lips, silencing her. "Shush, girl. We're not safe yet."

"Severus, do you think it's wise?" Malfoy whispered next to him. He did not turn to acknowledge the boy, still staring down at the injured girl in front of him.

"She is dying, boy." His free hand pushed her school robes further open, exposing the large crimson stain. She fought him feebly and he grasped the offending hand. "If she doesn't die first, the Dark Lord will find her."

Malfoy stiffened next to him. There was no need to voice what would happen then.

He moved closer to her, and she pressed weakly against the front of his black Death Eater robes.

"Don't fight me, Miss Granger. Your body is already significantly damaged. I fear that a bind might kill you."

He pulled her close, dragging her into his arms even as she went limp with sudden defeat. Hermione stared up at him with wet eyes, dark with a mixture of hate and fear.

"Traitor." The one word was so quiet, so soft, but held such vehemence that Malfoy jerked back from his position next to the older man.

His grasp tightened around her, his black, fathomless eyes hard behind his silvery mask.

"And don't forget it," he whispered back, his voice caressing her even as consciousness left her grasp, and the world fell into blackness as the three of them apparated from the smoldering ruins of Hogsmeade.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** Reviews are a writer's best friend.

**A/N:** This chap is heavy on Malfoy, but this is not a DM/HG story (sorry if that makes you sad). But he is rather necessary to my plot, so there you have it.

**  
Chapter Two**

The light seemed to be burning against her eyelids, beckoning her back into consciousness. She felt the softness of a bed under her, the clean smell and crisp texture of a thin sheet across her small frame. The minute sense of comfort was torn away as the pain suddenly made itself known again, her left side throbbing with a dull, insistent ache.

It all came back in a rush, a twisted kaleidoscope of memories that she had for one split second convinced herself were just nightmares brought on after an evening drinking butterbeer heavily spiked by the Weasley twins. But it had been real. _The Death Eaters, Hogsmeade burning to the ground, Lavender dead at her feet…_

_And Snape and Malfoy_. It didn't make sense, why they hadn't killed her. She had lost consciousness when her old professor had pulled her into his arms, waking again in a strange place, her shirt missing, Snape standing over her with a wand. Hermione had thought for sure that he would kill her then, but the light from his wand was blue, the large gash against her side tingling as the flesh knitted itself whole again. Snape had murmured a complicated healing spell, one she had read about but never had the opportunity to see herself before that moment.

She had remembered vaguely that Malfoy had been standing behind the older wizard. Other than a smirk or a sneer, something she would have expected to see on his face, he looked more withdrawn, almost distraught. The whole situation confused her, and she tried valiantly to focus, to take it all in and process it. But her mind was too fractured, and after swallowing the contents of the third potions vial Snape handed her, that of the blood replenishing potion of which she could still taste on her lips, she felt herself losing consciousness once again.

Hermione maintained absolute stillness in the bed, keeping her breathing even as she strained to listen, trying to gauge her surroundings without opening her eyes. The room was light, she could tell, and she was pretty sure it was sunlight, by the orange-yellow glow against her eyelids. There was a fluttering sound of fabric shifting, accompanied by a cool breeze that smelled distinctly like the sea. A window, there was a window open somewhere.

A bird called out in the distance, and she emptied her thoughts on all but the sound of that bird, trying to recognize the specific type. It was a Peregrine, a type of muggle falcon, native, she knew, to Scotland.

Several more minutes passed by before she was satisfied that she was alone in the room, as she could not hear anyone's breathing but her own, or smell anything beyond the laundered sheets of the bed and the faint smoke scent of her own hair, spread out as it was on her pillow. Hermione slowly opened her eyes, her hands drawing up into fists above the coverlet.

The room was small. Other than the narrow bed she was lying on, there was a small side table with a gas lamp to her right, a rocking chair with several missing spindles on the backrest, sitting nearby. Across from her bed, there was a weathered oak chifferobe against the opposite wall, the only other piece of furniture in the room. The one window to her left was half open, the yellowed lace curtains twisting lazily in the breeze. The pink rose wallpaper was peeling in places and the hard wood floor had seen better days, its wear not hidden by the faded pink rug to the right of her bed.

There were two doorways, the smaller one was closed, the larger opening free of a door altogether, its unused hinges rusted, the lower one dangling by one screw. She could make out a bit of the hallway through the doorway, seeing that the rather worn down, country feel continued beyond her bedroom.

The room had a certain lived-in feel to it, but a recent emptiness, as if it had been abandoned. It most definitely did not fit into any sort of decorating scheme Snape or Malfoy would ever use.

"Finally awake I see, Granger."

Her dark gaze shot back to the now occupied space of the larger doorway. She sat up in the bed, pulling the sheet up close around her chest.

"Bloody fantastic vision you have, Malfoy," she replied, glaring at him. He was smirking, his gray-blue eyes drifting from her face to the sheet covering her nearly nude torso

"Not like I didn't see it all last night," he laughed, leaning against the worn, wood doorframe, crossing his arms across his chest.

Hermione tilted her head, staring back at him, finally taking in his appearance. He looked…_odd_. She realized with a start that it was because he was wearing muggle clothing. She had never seen him in anything other than their school uniforms, or wizarding robes, and here he was, one of the most outspoken of "pure bloods", wearing dark blue jeans, trainers, and a long-sleeved t-shirt. His white blond hair wasn't slicked back, but uncombed, several stray strands constantly slipping across his forehead.

She blinked, her unease with the situation increasing. "What are you wearing?"

His smirk faded, and he shifted slightly against the doorframe. "Don't be daft, Granger. They're called clothes."

They stared at each other silently, and she unconsciously started chewing on her lower lip, not know what to say, what to expect.

"Where are we?" Her voice was soft, hesitant.

He looked across the room to the open window, staring out at nothing for all she knew, an unreadable expression crossing his angular face. "We're 10 minutes south of Banchory."

"This is not Professor Snape's home," she replied with certainty.

"Of course not. Several Order members saw fit to burn his house at Spinner's End to the ground, coveted books and all. This is an abandoned farmhouse. Ugly as a troll's hovel, but safer than Hogwarts."

Unwittingly, Hermione felt a twinge of sadness to that fact. No one was hurt, but couldn't they have saved his books? Undoubtedly, she was sure the professor had quite a collection, one that could have benefited their fight against Voldemort.

"Malfoy."

The cold gaze of the eighteen-year-old Death Eater was back on her, his lips drawn out in a thin line.

"You had a chance. Why didn't you?" Whether she was talking about his chance to kill her, or that of the headmaster, neither of them really knew.

His lips parted, then closed again. He shook his head, a gesture that looked to be more for his benefit than hers.

"Severus made breakfast before he left. There's enough for you, if you get your lazy arse out of bed," Malfoy said quietly, a bitter undercurrent in the sentence. He pointed to the small, closed doorway. "There's a small water closet in there. Take a shower, and use soap. Lots of it. You smell like an overcooked Porlok, Mudblood."

Anger seared through her. The rest of his sentence, his taunt, was nothing compared to the derogatory term for her heritage he had never ceased to use against her. Even now, trapped and sore as she was, he still tormented her with it.

She rose up on her knees on the mattress, the sheet still clutched to her chest, but with less force then before, all of her emotion directed at him.

"The only way you ever got close enough to me to even _try_ and smell me was because I was sliced open by a hex! Is that how you get under the girls skirts, by hexing them first, Ferret boy?"

He raised his wand so quickly towards her she flinched involuntarily, rocking back on her arse on the mattress, staring at him wide eyed. His movement had jerked the long sleeve of his shirt back, exposing his forearm, and in turn, the black tattoo of the Death Eater. She had seen the mark before, twice to be exact, but something about Malfoy's was different.

Across the mark and surrounding skin, there were deep, angry slash marks cut into his flesh, distorting the image of the snake. They looked intentional, almost…self-inflicted.

Seeing her stare, her lips parted on a silent gasp, he yanked hard against the shirtsleeve, covering his forearm while lowering his wand. Her dark gaze met his cold eyes, and they regarded each other silently for several moments, the tension almost crackling between them.

He looked away from her, slipping his wand back into the deep, carpenter-style pocket of his dark blue jeans. He fumbled with his sleeves again, although unnecessarily, before turning back to her.

"I'll never call you that again," he whispered, his voice thick with obvious hesitation. "If you swear you'll never mention my mark to anyone else."

Her brown eyes lingered on his forearm, the Dark Mark safely covered. Wouldn't he have been proud of it? Wasn't that something they boasted to other Slytherins, or showed to their victims to bring forth fear? And why on earth would he cut at it? She felt pity and confusion, all in the same stream of consciousness.

But he had said…_never again_. He would never again call her that filthy name.

A slow grin spread across her pale face, the first true smile she could ever remember intentionally giving Malfoy. "Truce, then."

He mirrored her smile, though it seemed almost sickly. She would have laughed out loud if they were back at Hogwarts, but with his history, and the current situation, it was beyond inappropriate.

"Merlin, what has the world come to?" He muttered, pushing off of the doorframe and taking a few steps into the room.

She watched his movements unblinking. "You tell me, Malfoy. I have no idea, but I have a feeling you do."

He grunted. "It's…complicated." He shook his head again, sighing. He pointed to the chifferobe, changing the subject abruptly.

"Your shirt's ruined. The rest of your clothes reek, so please don't change back into them," he ordered her, one side of his mouth twitching as she spared him a scowl. "There's a bunch of female muggle clothing in this wardrobe thing. It's all clean, just transfigure it if you have to. I'm sure that won't be a problem for you, Granger."

"Why are we dressing like muggles? I don't understand…"

"For the love of Circe, stop asking questions!" Malfoy cut her off, exasperated. "Why don't you just nod and agree with me for a change? After all, we saved your life…"

"What?" Her scowl deepened as indignation sparked within her. "You were going to leave me if it weren't for the professor…!"

Without even realizing it, she had whipped around, picking up the only weapon she had within reach. Malfoy jerked back in the doorway, deflecting the thrown pillow, flustered.

"You better be thankful I don't have my wand, Malfoy!"

He snorted, pausing at the door. "I am _quite_ thankful, actually." The smirk was back on his face as he regarded her one last time where she was sitting, fuming on the bed.

"There's a jar of salve on the side of the bathroom sink. Severus says you need to rub it onto your injury after your shower. The vial next to it is pain potion. And don't try and sneak out the window. Severus personally warded this house tighter than Azkaban, which along with keeping unwanted visitors out, now also keeps a special visitor in."

He turned, shouting back at her as he disappeared through the entrance. "Don't take more than 15 minutes or I'll feed your breakfast to the sink monster!"

Hermione stared at the empty doorway, wishing she had another pillow to throw. "It's called a garbage disposal, you prat!"

She heard the distant bark of his laughter and sighed, looking around her surroundings dejectedly. This was all unreal; she really had no clue what to do, where to begin. Take a shower? The idea seemed ludicrous.

But she had to grudgingly agree with him; the smoke from Hogsmeade had permeated her hair, not to mention she was sure her brassiere, school skirt and socks were affected, if not covered with soot as well.

She peeked under the covers and sighed, looking down at what was left of her uniform.

"Okay, let's be practical." Her voice sounded odd in the small room and she bit her lip. She tied the sheet tight around her chest and crawled off the bed, walking over to the weathered chifferobe.

She pulled hard on the lowest drawer, the wood creaking in protest as she jerked it open. _Merlin's beard. Had this house been abandoned in the forties?_

Hermione looked down at the assorted underthings, girdles and garters, sturdy stockings and a corset that almost looked Victorian. The drawer smelled like mothballs. She snorted, suddenly taken in by the absurdity of the whole situation.

_Well, it's not like she would wear someone else's knickers anyway, even if they were clean and free of moths._ She smirked at the thought, shoving the drawer closed.

She opened the doors to the upper wardrobe, peering inside to all of the hanging clothes. Her suspicions were confirmed. If this previous resident hadn't abandoned the house in the forties, then the woman who had occupied this room had a serious thing for retro apparel.

She sighed again, staring at all of the dresses in front of her. What did it matter, really? What was the point of trying to find something respectable to wear around Malfoy of all people? And where had Professor Snape gone? Weren't they both Death Eaters? Hadn't Malfoy run away, or disappeared, or had been killed by Voldemort after failing in his mission to kill Dumbledore?

And Lavender. Poor Lavender. And Ron, and Harry…

Hermione reached in and yanked one of the long sundresses off a wire hanger, banging the doors shut and walking into the small bathroom, closing the door behind her. She muttered a quick locking spell, not nearly complicated enough to keep out a determined wizard, but it would give Malfoy pause if he tried to sneak in on her.

The bathroom was ancient. The toilet had a pull chain, the water tank suspended from above. There was a claw-footed tub with a showerhead attachment hooked onto the worn tile wall. Two rather dingy looking, but thankfully fresh smelling bath towels hung over the lone rung. As promised, the salve jar and potion vial were to the edge of the sink. There was also a hairbrush, a rolled, half used tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush.

Her parents would never forgive her if she skipped brushing her teeth, a task she usually performed with wand magic now. She wondered if it had been the professor or Malfoy that had been thoughtful. Though she couldn't imagine why either of them would bother.

She peeled off her clothes slowly, her body still achy and tired. Leaning against the side of the tub, she twisted the ancient faucet handles, the water pipes groaning to life. Thankfully, clear water started to gush into the ancient tub, and she waited for it to warm before turning the main faucet over to shower mode and stepping under the spray.

Hermione went to the task of cleaning her thick mass of hair, thankful that there was both shampoo and cream rinse on the side of the tub in unmarked bottles, both smelling like ylang ylang and rose. The bar of soap had actual rose petals throughout, reminding her of a similar bar she had purchased for Ginny several holidays ago from a little muggle cosmetics shop in Glasgow.

She pushed her memories aside, cleaning her hair as she tried to focus. She found it safe to assume at this point that Harry and Voldemort were still alive. Malfoy hadn't mentioned any of the others, but if the Boy Who Lived or the Dark Lord had died in the battle of Hogsmeade, she knew she wouldn't be here, in the place she considered their "safe house".

Professor Snape had killed Dumbledore. Harry had seen it. So what was he doing saving her? Was he protecting Malfoy?

She turned around to rinse her hair, thoughts speeding through her head, different theories alternately presented and discounted. Was she worth something more to them alive than dead? She knew she was highly intelligent; she never wanted to be narcissistic to the fact, but she studied fiercely over the years in her quest for knowledge, and it was no secret that it was the main talent she brought to the Golden Trio.

But even if Voldemort accepted that she was an extremely talented witch, her muggle-born status would outweigh any use she could bring him. She was only another pawn, in the way of the ultimate checkmate.

She turned off the water, standing naked, dripping in the bathtub, her eyes open but unseeing. If not the Dark Lord, then what would Professor Snape have to benefit from her? Had he brought her here to protect her? That made no sense.

He killed Dumbledore. Snape was a traitor, a _murderer_. So why he had healed her? S_he didn't understand._

She pulled one towel off the rung to wrap around her hair and used the other to dry off. Without her wand, it took her awhile to get ready, towel drying her hair to a point where she could braid it loosely. She knew she was well past the 15 minutes Malfoy had threatened her with, but she cared less at this point about the arrogant prat, even though her stomach growled in disapproval.

Hermione downed the unpleasant tasting potion in one practiced gulp, corking the vial and setting it back down on the sink's edge. She picked up the jar of salve and worked the sandalwood smelling mixture into the red and somewhat splotchy area of skin where the slicing hex had been.

She slipped the flowery sundress over her head, zipping up the back and turning around to look in the cracked mirror of the bathroom. It was obviously made for someone taller than her, as the hem hit her mid-calf, but she was pleased with the length considering she had no knickers. The waist was loose, but without her wand, she couldn't transfigure it, as Malfoy had so _helpfully_ suggested.

The top was sleeveless, the pattern busy enough, and her own stature small, that she didn't fret about not having another brassiere to change into. She would need to talk to the professor in getting her wand back.

She looked back at the mirror, scowling back at her fractured image. Somehow, she didn't think he would just hand it over if she asked. She needed to use that big brain of hers and come up with a plan. But she needed more information first.

Hermione walked hesitantly out of her bedroom into the deserted hallway. She moved slowly, her bare feet shuffling across the tattered carpet soundlessly. At the edge of the hallway there was a set of stairs going down.

She stood there for a moment, taking in the situation and just listening. The mouth-watering smell of bacon and eggs tickled her nose, the faint scent of chamomile tea underneath that. She could hear the clank of dishes, a muttered spell, and the residual light of said spell. Then a low singing voice, a lullaby in French…

She bit her lip, holding back the giggle. _Merlin, was that Malfoy singing_? Smirking, but still careful, she descended the steps, entering the living room of the house.

Like her bedroom, the main area of the house also had a worn-down, lived-in antique country feel to it. There were two overstuffed blue couches that had seen better days, a dark navy recliner nearly hidden in the shadows of the far corner, a low wooden coffee table, a rather large fireplace, and a lamb's wool rug covering part of the wood planked floor. Books upon books were stacked in piles well over a meter high along the walls. Perhaps Professor Snape had been able to save some of his extensive library after all.

She walked through the living room and into the kitchen, pausing at the entrance. At least this area of the house had been updated somewhat. All of the appliances were white, not the avocado green she had been expecting. It was an L-shaped set up, with a small, four person dinette set giving the kitchen an added feeling of hominess.

Malfoy's back was to her, but he had stopped mid-verse, flicking his wand so the plate that he had levitated fluttered gently back down to the counter. "Are you trying to sneak up on me, Granger?"

"Why would I do that?"

He turned then, his gray-blue eyes widening slightly as his attention was drawn to her dress. She crossed her arms across her chest, her chin raising a fraction at the look he was giving her.

"I told you to transfigure anything you needed."

"That would have been nice. With a wand," she added darkly.

His lips pursed briefly. She rolled her eyes, shaking her head soundlessly.

"Your breakfast is on the table with a warming charm," he told her, his voice quiet as he turned back to the sink. She stared at his back, blinking in surprise.

"You said…"

"Severus ordered me to feed you, or I would have let you starve," Malfoy grunted. "Why did it take you so long anyways? I didn't think you were the sort of girl that took forever on her hair…"

"Please tell me, when is the last time you got ready without your wand?" She cut him off, her tone strained with anger. He didn't turn around.

"Just eat your breakfast, Granger."

She glared at his back a few moments longer. When he continued to clean and stack the dishes with his wand, effectively ignoring her, she sighed, sitting down at the dinette. There was a plate upside down over another plate, a teacup to the left, a lone fork to the right. She noticed with dark humor he hadn't provided her with a knife. _Perhaps he was smarter than she gave him credit for._

Hermione pulled off the top plate, uncovering the steaming plate of two eggs sunny side up, bacon, and toast with a single pat of butter. Her stomach growled, and she remembered with a start that the last thing she had eaten was a couple of chocolate frogs while walking down High Street yesterday afternoon.

She dug into the food ravenously, so caught up in the meal that she barely acknowledged Malfoy as he sat down at the table across from her. He was watching her with faint amusement, following her movements as she soaked part of the toast in the broken yolk on the plate.

"This…is…fantastic," she murmured between bites, glancing up at him briefly. "I had no idea Professor Snape could cook."

Malfoy set his elbows on the table top, resting his chin in his hands. "You know, he's not the epitome of evil you think he is. He saved my life. And he saved yours."

_Traitor. Killer of Dumbledore._ And she was eating his food. Her stomach suddenly felt sour, and she set down the piece of bacon she had been chewing on. She stared across the table at Malfoy, her mouth pulled into a thin line.

"I want my wand back, Malfoy." Her voice was low, her tone serious and sharp.

He exhaled heavily, pushing up from the table. "I don't have it. You'll have to talk to Severus."

Malfoy walked out of the kitchen, and Hermione stumbled out of her chair, her plan to stash the fork as a future weapon forgotten in her haste to follow him.

"Malfoy…"

He was on his knees in front of one of the couches in the living room, pulling a large, mahogany box from under the frame. She stood still in the entryway, watching as he heaved the box onto the low coffee table, working the latches to open it.

Pulling the two panels back, he revealed a gleaming, lacquered chessboard, a large velveteen bag containing what she assumed where the pieces falling out to the side of the board.

She was silent, tracing his movements as he set up the board in speedy precision, glancing up at her through several strands of his white blond hair when he was done.

"Severus will be home later. For now, you have nowhere to go. And neither do I. I don't know if you've figured it out yet, but I'm stuck here too." He frowned, staring hard at the antique, soapstone pieces before looking back at her. "I know it's not Wizard's Chess, but the game's the same."

Her mouth quirked up slightly. Had he forgotten so easily that she would be more familiar with the muggle type of chess anyway?

Seeing her hesitation, his frown deepened. "Listen, I know I'm supposedly this Death Eater, and you're…muggle-born, but can't we pretend to be friends for the next couple of hours and just play chess?"

She walked around the coffee table, kneeling down carefully on the other side of the chessboard. "You know, I'm really not very good at this game."

He glanced back at her, a slow smile creasing his angular face. "I guess this game might last awhile then, because I can't claim expertise either. For some reason, I don't think either of us have to worry about that fact leaving the room."

She mirrored his smirk, and he gestured back to the chessboard in front of them.

"Witches first."

They started the game, forgetting years of animosity as they played, both awaiting Snape's return.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** Reviews are a writer's best friend.

**A/N:** I will admit here my secret love for the ultimate magic man, with his hooknose, black eyes, and that voice. He has to be the hardest character to try to replicate in fan fiction. Here is my attempt.

**Chapter Three**

It was rather unsettling how easy it was to fall into somewhat friendly banter with Malfoy. It had started out awkward of course, the young wizard across from her choking several times on the now forbidden derogatory term for her bloodline. After the first few moves across the chessboard, he had tried to engage her in a discussion about the current happenings with Quidditch. She changed the topic, not wanting to talk about anything that would painfully remind her of Ron, and Harry, and her current situation.

She mentioned the N.E.W.T.s; it would be refreshing to discuss magical theory and practice with someone of moderate intelligence. After all, Malfoy and her had been head to head as the most intelligent of their peers since first year. But he had plaintively ignored this dialogue, and she realized with sudden pity that he would never see Hogwarts again, let alone finish his N.E.W.T.s and study as an apprentice under a master of his chosen field. These were her dreams, and she was achingly aware that she might not make it out to see them into fruition either.

Hermione dared not to mention his Dark Mark and the self-inflicted wounds, even as she burned with curiosity. It was something completely unexpected and changed what she had always known and expected of him into something unfamiliar. He was foreign to her, and it made her more wary and guarded than she would have felt if he had been holding his wand, spitting the word _Mudblood_ in her face again.

They had finally settled on discussing art of all things, the conversation shifting from Hermione describing the Tate and National Galleries of London, to Malfoy illustrating his knowledge of the galleries of Paris, Prague and New York. She felt a pang of jealously that he had been so well traveled during his holidays in all of those summers away from Hogwarts. But the feeling was forgotten with the realization that he had actually spent time, _voluntarily_ no less, in a place Muggles visited and adored. And he seemed to be enamored with it, relishing the memories with an enthusiasm that matched hers towards Arithmancy.

She realized with a start that she didn't really know this boy sitting across from her. _No, no more a boy than she was still just a girl_. Malfoy was a young man now, the once soft lines of childhood now hardened from age and war; he resembled his father more than ever, his beauty nearly angelic, but not quite covering the cold callousness underneath. Lucius Malfoy scared her more than most, and she found if she overlooked the unkempt platinum hair and the out of place Muggle clothes, she was playing chess with a near perfect replication of the feared Death Eater, Voldemort's right hand wizard next to the professor.

"Granger? Are you going to move this century?"

She blinked, flushing slightly when she realized she had been staring off into space for several minutes now.

"Just…thinking."

"Obviously," he returned, smirking. "Though for some reason, I doubt it was about your next move. Just take my knight, already."

She looked at him, the dizzy feeling of being lost in her own head once again taking over. He was staring at her, his wintry gray-blue eyes sparkling with mirth. She imagined he had given his Slytherian friends that same look over the years, one of uncalculated amusement in the midst of some ordinary conversation.

She was suddenly starved for her friends, hungry for the feeling of rightness, of knowing what the next day, even what the next hour would hold for her. She needed the roughness of Ron's hand in hers, Harry's barking laughter as they shared jokes in the Great Hall at breakfast. Hermione wanted to feel safe again.

"When do you think the war will end?" The question shocked even her, and she moved back slightly, moistening her lower lip with the tip of her tongue. His eyes widened, the twinkle fading. He was looking at her hard, really looking, and she shifted, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest.

"I don't know," he whispered. He continued to watch openly at her as if seeing her for the first time. The minutes dragged past, and she unconsciously took in the sounds of their breathing, the nervous rhythm occasionally pierced by the distant sound of the Peregrine falcon's call drifting through the open windows upstairs.

"I used to wish for it, you know."

Hermione's head titled with her silent question. The smile he gave her this time was humorless, almost dark. She understood then, the realization clawing into her stomach like the chilly talons of a Dementor.

"The war was a story at bedtime, a fairytale weaved by my parents and continued by their friends. I thought I understood it all. The Purebloods would rule like they were meant to. It was simple, really. We were the masters of this world, Muggles and Muggleborns were of inferior blood."

She felt the heat in her face, the anger causing her arms to uncross, hands in tight fists by her sides, pressed hard into the fabric of her sundress. A sharp retort stung the back of her throat, burning to be released on the blond wizard in front of her. But his next words held her back.

"I didn't know how wrong I was. There's a difference, you see, between that ideal fairytale of being better than everyone else, being the chosen master race and that of actually having to kill to achieve it. I couldn't…"

Malfoy's jaw twitched, and he tore his gaze from her, staring hard at the chessboard. She continued to look at him, speechless with what he had revealed to her.

"I couldn't kill him," he finished, his voice low. "No more than I could kill you."

A million questions rushed through her mind, swarming in a mass that was nearly painful as she tried to focus. She wanted to ask him about the Mark, about his father, about what had happened that night Dumbledore had been killed by the professor. She knew now he was on the run, hiding from Voldemort.

But Snape knew where he was. He knew and still Malfoy was alive. He had saved her life, and now she was here, in the "safe house" with Malfoy. From what she had gathered from Malfoy earlier, Snape was even with Voldemort _right now_, his knowledge of them sequestered in a place hidden by the skilled Occlumens. It made no sense.

_Unless he was still a spy._ But that was impossible. Snape had killed Dumbledore.

Her fingertips caressed the white rook before lifting it, her little finger hooking the black knight in question as she moved forward across the board. She set Malfoy's piece on her side of the coffee table next to the others.

"Perhaps you should tell me more," she spoke softly, glancing up at him. He eyed her warily, his face seemingly aged by ten years after their heavy conversation.

"You're safer if I don't. Anyway, Severus wouldn't appreciate it."

"Do you answer to him now?"

"He is my godfather, Granger. Not to mention I owe him my life. He saved me from the monster I could have become, and the monster I was so willing to worship." He was looking down at the chessboard, pointedly ignoring her again.

"Speaking of which, where is Professor Snape? I thought he would be back by now," she asked. He was still focused on the game, and started to reach for one of his bishops when her stomach growled.

Malfoy looked up, his surprised expression quickly changing to amusement. "Hungry?"

"We've played this game for several hours now, haven't we?"

Malfoy leaned back, digging through the front left pocket of his jeans. Her lips quirked up slightly as he pulled out the pocket watch; the timepiece looked like an antique, and was almost comically out of place in his current Muggle mode of dress. "I suppose we missed tea. I thought Severus would be back by now."

Hermione frowned. "Do you think he's all right?"

Malfoy grunted, flipping his watch closed and pocketing it. "He's with the Dark Lord, Granger." He didn't need to add that he thought her question was stupid; his tone was rather direct in its intended interpretation.

She stood, her knees popping with the sudden movement after being bent for hours, her sundress swirling in a wrinkled mass around her. She felt the anger build again, the feeling of being kept in the dark while her world had been so wretchedly fractured causing her emotions to spike.

"We can't just sit here and play chess all day, Malfoy. There is a war going on out there…"

The winded, crackling sound of an Apparition caused the words to die on her lips. Malfoy shot to his feet next to her, his wand out. Wandless, but not without her reputable forethought, Hermione grabbed the rusted, fairly bent fire poker that had been leaning against the weathered mahogany of the fireplace; she had noticed it several hours ago at the beginning of their game, and now brandished it as a weapon. Both stood, side by side, staring towards the kitchen, waiting in silence.

The Death Eater stumbled more than walked into the entryway between the kitchen and living room, leaning heavily on the doorframe. Hermione's heart thudded painfully against her ribs, the sweat cold at her brow even as courage swelled through her, causing her to tighten her hold on the fire poker. She heard Malfoy speak, but his words were like an echo, nonsensical as all of her focus burned on the cloaked wizard across the room from them.

A black-gloved hand reached up, darkened in patches by what looked like matted blood. Instead of slipping into his robes for his wand, he was reaching upwards for his mask, a fine tremor to his hand as he pulled the silvery disguise from his face.

"Severus," the name came out in a relieved rush from Malfoy, the younger wizard pocketing his wand. He started towards the professor, concern on his face. "You've been hurt."

He was relatively unchanged from his days as her professor, Hermione noted absently. His skin was still pallid, his hooked nose casting a shadow over thin lips pulled into what she had wondered sometimes to be a permanent scowl. His black eyes were the most striking feature of his pale face; they shone like pure onyx, but were fathomless, engaging their viewer with an unmatched intensity. He could read minds with just a look; his intended target only had to be drawn into the spell of his eyes.

The silver mask slipped from fingers, clattering against the weathered, wood planked floor. Snape slid against the doorframe, hunching slightly. His black gaze shifted from Malfoy to her, and then back to Malfoy.

"The Dark Lord is…displeased."

She watched as Malfoy hurried next to the older wizard, slipping one arm under his and around his back to support him. She stood still, feeling a mixture of uncertainty and unwanted concern for her former professor as Malfoy led him to the couch facing the large fireplace.

"Merlin, Granger! Don't just stand there. Come here!"

She was so lost in the moment she didn't spare Malfoy the scowl he deserved from barking any sort of order to her. She moved dazedly around the blue couch, walking past the coffee table with their unfinished chess game, stopping behind Malfoy. Malfoy was murmuring something to her old professor, which he in turn answered, the words _Dark Lord, battle_, and _pursuit_ the only ones she could make out. Malfoy's pale fingers were working the clasps on the heavy Death Eater robes while Snape shakily pulled the ominous hood back from his black, greasy shoulder length hair.

"Do you plan on actually brandishing that weapon, Miss Granger? Or are you trying to determine its uses in metallurgy?" His silky, low voice, tinged every so slightly with pain startled her into moving backwards a step. Malfoy whipped around, his innocuous expression shifting to dark annoyance.

"Bloody hell! Drop that fire poker and get your arse over here," he growled. Anger burned through her, simmering slightly when she saw the fear in his cold gray-blue eyes. Malfoy was scared. It suddenly occurred to her that the professor might have actually been hurt quite badly.

She set the fire poker down next to the coffee table, walking over to the couch and kneeling down next to Malfoy. Snape was staring at her, his black eyes so intense she unwittingly looked away, her attention back on Malfoy. The blond wizard's wintry gaze was shifting from the blood matted across Snape's torn black frock coat, to the subtle shudder of his gloved hands. Hermione realized that Malfoy was accessing his injuries. Snape was wounded; she wasn't anywhere near as skilled as a Mediwitch, but she recognized the residual symptoms of the Cruciatus curse, not to mention other curses and hexes he may have suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his fellow Death Eaters.

Malfoy jerked to his feet, and without a word, turned and dashed out of the living room into the dark hallway beyond.

"Malfoy!" Her enraged exclamation of his name went unanswered, and she exhaled sharply, turning back to Snape.

He was still staring at her, his expression unreadable, though obviously in the realm of something unpleasant. She opened her mouth to speak, and then pursed her lips, the words failing in her throat. He was a traitor. He had killed Dumbledore. But he had saved her life, for whatever reason. And it wasn't within her to just let him suffer from his injuries while she sat and watched.

"Sir, I don't have a wand," she said, her voice soft and hesitant. He scowled.

"I don't remember asking for your assistance, Miss Granger," he snapped, his tone still low and uncompromising. She frowned.

"I don't believe I gave you a choice, Professor," she shot back, moving closer to where he lay, spread out in a half reclined position on the couch. His expression had shifted again, and if they were back in Potions class, she would have taken it as a warning. Oh, it had been a long time since she had actually feared him, however she recognized danger when she saw it. But her world had irrevocably shifted in the past 48 hours, and they had not been professor and student for quite awhile now. She wouldn't back down.

"Why, you impertinent little witch," he snarled, moving up on his elbows, his black eyes pinning her. Her breath caught, but she ignored the sudden uneasiness, her Gryffindor sensibilities taking over. With the same courage that ran through the heart of her House, she reached forward, the fingertips of her left hand brushing against the buttons at the collar of his frock coat. She needed to see his wounds. Maybe with wandless magic, she could help him.

Snape grabbed her wrist at frightening speed, jerking her hand away from his clothing, and in turn, pulling her closer against the edge of the couch, nearer to him. The sudden movement caused her breath to catch. Her eyes went wide and her free hand clenched against the worn fabric of the couch as she stared at him. His gloved fingers tightened a fraction around her wrist, and she couldn't help the small gasp at his action.

Snape's already black eyes seemed to darken. His gaze shifted across her face, moving from her large brown eyes, the flush of her cheeks, drifting past her parted lips to the edge of her sundress, the bodice visible from where she was pressed flush against the couch.

"Pray tell, child, what on earth are you wearing?" He asked in a whisper, his voice barely audible to her. She blinked, thrown off kilter by his 180-degree change in conversation.

"It was…um, the Muggle clothes, sir, are all rather out of date."

"Why did you not let Draco transfigure this… this _dress_ for you?"

Laughter bubbled out of her throat at the idea. "Do you honestly expect me to let Malfoy _voluntarily _point his wand in my direction?"

A shadow of what could be considered amusement flickered across his eyes so fast she was certain she had imagined it. He tugged at her wrist, and she moved in response to his unspoken request, shifting up to her full height on her knees. Snape was staring at her again, and she fought the instinct to stir under his gaze.

His free hand slipped into his parted Death Eater robes and he pulled out his wand. Before she could protest, or protect herself in any way, he was whispering an incantation, the magic swirling through the air, sliding around her, touching her. She felt the shift of fabric, the sturdy roughness of the sundress replaced with the cool softness of brushed velvet. The feel of it against her exposed flesh was disconcerting; the magic slid like silken hands across her bare thighs, up her belly to cover her breasts.

She was still shaking with reaction when he pulled away. In place of the calf-length patterned sundress, she was covered in violet; the dark velvet dress fit her snug around the torso, numerous buttons forming a line down the front to the hem where it brushed her ankles. From the gathered waist, it flowed around her like an errant cloud, shimmering more like silk that the velvet she felt against her skin. It wasn't sleeveless like the sundress, but the bodice edge dipped below her collarbone, and she itched with the sudden childlike response to cover the pale, freckle-covered flesh never seen before by her professor.

"Sir?" Her voice this time was soft, unsure, and she was suddenly annoyed at her own weakness.

"Your garment, Miss Granger, was painful to me. Even if you chose not to let Mr. Malfoy…_help_ you out of your predicament, you cannot expect me to suffer under your visual torment."

She blinked, absorbing his words. If she were back at Hogwarts, if her world hadn't changed so drastically in the last 24 hours, she might have given him a sharp-tongued retort. As it was, Hermione Granger was lost. She had known this man in front of her since she was eleven years old, but then in reality, she really didn't know him at all. Her feared but respected professor, a wizard who had been scorned and ridiculed by so many even while working as a spy for the Order. _The one that had killed Dumbledore._

"Why did Vold-" she paused, moistening her bottom lip, "-the Dark Lord curse you, Sir? After all that you have done for him?"

He grunted, turning slightly on the weathered cushions as his long fingers shakily worked on the buttons on his dark frock coat. "I am no different than the others, Miss Granger. Even in my _esteemed_ position as of late, I still suffer under the Dark Lord's wrath."

She reached out to help him with the task of undressing, and he smacked her hand. Skin smarting, she jerked back, biting her lower lip. She watched as he pulled himself free from the heavy black frock coat, pushing it back to expose the white shirt underneath. Blood soaked through in odd shapes on the thin fabric, and she was sharply reminded of her own wound, the slicing hex now just a dull ache against her left side.

When he worked free of the last button of the white undershirt, she couldn't help but gasp. In the areas of his lean, pale torso not smeared with blood, she could plainly see the scars of his battled past, encounters she could only imagine with Voldemort, other Death Eaters and those things still unknown and unnamed.

"Professor!"

"Do not call me that, girl! I ended my torture as your professor the day I killed the old man. You'll watch your mouth."

She stared at him, lips parted in a mixture of shock and anger. It was one thing to listen to Harry painfully describe the death of the Headmaster and the ultimate betrayal of the Order's deepest spy. It was another to actually hear her former professor dismiss the act so flippantly, so callously it was if he had slapped her across the face.

He killed Dumbledore. He was a murderer, a traitor. _But he had saved her life._

Without really giving thought to what she was doing, Hermione reached forward again, her fingertips skimming across his bare, injured chest. When he didn't fight her, she closed her eyes, all of her concentration focused on the battlefield of flesh under her hands.

"I remember last night when you healed me. It was a complicated spell, Sir, something I've read about but never seen."

"Hmm," his reply was short, but soft. Her eyes remained shut as she felt the transition of skin made hard by scar tissue, to the stickiness of drying blood.

"Teach me and I'll help you," she whispered. His laughter was dry, lacking any humor, and she opened her eyes, once again confronted with the fathomless midnight of his stare.

"You'll always be the insufferable know it all, Miss Granger. Even captured as you are now, staring ultimate death in the face, you still hassle me with questions. You _silly_ little girl…"

"I'm trying to help you!" She wrestled forward to stand, but his gloved left hand shot out, grasping her jaw, stilling her on her knees.

"Do you even realize the veracity of your situation? Last night you were split open like a pumpkin, left to die like Miss Brown. If my Lord had caught you, your fate would have been much, _much_ worse. You are but a pawn, child, surrounded by the enemy's knights with no king to save you."

Her angry retort was lost as Malfoy appeared in the entrance, his hands filled with vials of different colored potions. He paused for a moment in the doorway, his gaze flittering across Hermione and the violet, velvet gown.

"Felt like dressing up for tea, Granger?"

"Shove it, Malfoy."

He smirked at her briefly before walking into the living room and kneeling down next to her in front of the couch. Malfoy handed one vial filled with a dark red liquid to Snape first, his attention drawn back to the remaining six vials in his hands even as Hermione's gaze shifted between him and her former professor. The older wizard had downed the medicine and she watched, speechless, as Malfoy handed him another vial without looking up.

"Give Miss Granger the pain potion, Draco."

"Severus…"

"Don't argue with me, boy."

Without further discussion, Malfoy turned and shoved the small amber vial to her. She glanced at Snape, but his concentration was on the platinum haired wizard kneeling beside him. She took the tiny bottle, uncorked it, and swallowed the bitter tasting concoction in one gulp.

"That which you know is inside you; nothing has left, nothing has changed. I have taught you well, and you will carry on without trepidation, Draco. The blood is nothing but for the mind. Say it now," Snape whispered, his silky voice so low it was nearly lost in the stillness surrounding the trio. Her glance shifted from Snape back to Draco; the Slytherin appeared hesitant, almost nervous. She watched curiously as he slipped the remaining two vials into the pockets of his dark jeans.

"Severus, I don't know if I can…"

"Silence! The girl next to you would not hesitate, but for the lack of her wand. I saved you for a reason. Faith, boy, I have _faith_ in you."

Malfoy's mouth pursed momentarily before his face appeared virtually expressionless. He pulled out his wand, his free hand flexing instinctively over Snape's nude torso as his eyes closed in concentration. Hermione watched, transfixed, as the blue light cascaded from his wand, swelling to encompass her former professor's injured body.

"Viscus Pariter."

The healing spell came out with determination and hesitant strength from Malfoy. She found herself staring at him; it was a blunt reminder, again, that he was no longer just a horrible Pure-Blood prat and she was no longer just a Muggleborn girl. They had started on opposite sides of a war began before either of them were born. And the man before them, glowing in the residual burst of magic, was perhaps the most significant piece of it all.

Snape sighed, the sound hushed but thick with resignation. His body seemed to sink further into the worn blue cushions, his hooded black eyes shifting between the two teenagers in front of him.

"Hogsmeade?" Malfoy's one word question startled Hermione, and her attention shifted back to the white blond wizard.

Snape answered him with a slight shake of his head. "Burned to the ground. Eleven villagers lost their lives. Three students, including Lavender Brown, were killed."

His black eyes caught hers. "No one of concern to you, Miss Granger. Potter and Weasley escaped."

She swallowed the lump in her throat that she hadn't realized had formed. Harry and Ron were both safe. Involuntarily, tears burned at her eyes, threatening to spill.

"Why? Why did you save me? I don't understand. And Malfoy. Why didn't you bring me to Voldemort?" She ignored the quick look from Malfoy, shaking her head sharply, the thick braid at her back swinging with the movement. "Aren't you supposed to kill me?"

Snape grunted. "Don't make me wish to do so, Miss Granger. I have my reasons, which are of no business to you. Don't be such an ungrateful little witch." He paused, his gaze shifting across her face. She fought the instinct to squirm, the beating of her heart elevating as his black eyes drifted from her mouth, past the bodice of her velvet gown to her hands which were pulled into fists at her side.

"In the grand scheme of things, you know nothing. And while I know you won't, it would behoove you to listen to me, girl. If the Dark Lord ever acquired you, you would be subject to torture, rape, and other unpleasantness before your death. As much as you doubt it, you are better off hidden under my care."

Hermione was immobile for a moment before the sigh escaped, and she rolled back to rest on her heels. Malfoy was still staring at Snape, and she watched the older wizard as his eyes became more hooded, his face relaxing. She had recognized the spell from last night, and knew his body was healing and recovering, and soon sleep would take over and assist him in returning back to his normal state.

"Though I want to finish our game, chess would be bad right now. Grab a book, Granger. Anything you can't open is something of the Dark Arts, and you shouldn't bloody well be reading it anyways. So Severus says."

Hermione tore her gaze from where Snape had fallen into a potion induced sleep back over to Malfoy. He was staring at her with an indecipherable look on his face and she frowned.

"Since when do you care what a _Mudblood_ does, Malfoy?"

His cold gray-blue eyes narrowed and he rose to his feet in one quick movement. She looked up at him from her kneeling position next to the couch; she could have jumped to her feet, but at that moment, she sensed the dare. If he were to hex her now, wandless and at his feet, it would lower him as a powerful wizard in both of their worlds.

"You think you know everything, Granger, and you're wrong. Severus is not what you think he is, and I've changed from what I was. If you want to remain the same mouthy Gryffindor chit you were in school, so be it. But it just makes you as stupid and as _commonplace_ as the rest of them."

She watched as he turned and walked over to the far wall, lined as it was with meter high stacks of Snape's books. He was ignoring her, scanning the ancient tomes with undivided interest.

"Why did Professor Snape save me, Malfoy?"

His fingers paused on an ancient, brown leather covered text, and he turned, staring at her from across the dark living room.

"Maybe he _needed_ you alive." Malfoy pulled the book from the top of the pile, his attention still on the tome in front of him. "Did you ever think about that, Granger?"

She watched, silent, as the blond-haired wizard pulled the large book from the stack and pushed past her angrily, heading up the lone staircase.

Hermione looked back at her former professor. He was sleeping soundlessly now in front of her, sprawled out half nude on the worn blue couch. Her brown eyes shifted from the harsh features of his pale face, moving to his ashen, scar-ridden chest.

Without forethought, her fingertips traced the planes of his torso, mapping out some unbidden spell across his flesh. The feeling caught her again, and the emotion nearly choked her, the tears pooling in her eyes.

"Why?" Her voice came out in the barest of whispers. "Why kill him? Why help me? I don't understand."

I don't understand, I don't understand, I don't understand… 

Silently, the tears rolled down her pale, freckled cheeks as she pulled away from the sleeping form of Professor Snape.

For now, she would read. But as always, she would come up with a plan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we? 

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** Reviews are a writer's best friend.

**A/N:** My apologies for the unexpected delay. Real life can be a pain sometimes, yes?

**  
Chapter Four**

As always, it was the pain that bled first through his sleep. It started out as a singular sensation, a dull pressure against the left side of his skull. As his mind struggled to surface from the heaviness of forced unconsciousness, the feeling spread. With the steady rhythm of his heart, the pain seemed to flow through him, burning in his veins with the familiarity of the Cruciatus curse, only lacking the intensity of the Unforgivable. Before he could open his eyes, his whole body would bear the pain, the most visceral reminder of who he was, and the life he had chosen.

Severus had learned to live with it early on, and with some perversity, craved the sensation. For if nothing else, it reminded him he was still alive. Not that he actually enjoyed _living_ for the most part; his life had been one hell to the next, and recently had become significantly worse. But for one more day he was still able to actually _feel_. He had come to believe it was the only feeling he had left, and for the simple fact that he hadn't become completely numb, he continued on.

As the ache simmered through him, he ignored it with practiced indifference as he focused on his surroundings. He could tell immediately he was still on the weathered blue couch in the living room of the farmhouse. The texture of the fabric, the way the worn cushions sagged under his splayed form made it clear to him that he hadn't been moved.

The smell of the room was also unmistakable. Even though he and the boy had cast a multitude of cleaning spells and assorted charms after Severus had acquired the remote safe house, there was still a staleness to the air, only dampened somewhat by the residual smell of bacon and eggs, the burnt oak in the cooled fireplace, and warm scent of roses.

His eyelids flickered open. His black gaze shifted from the ceiling, past the fireplace, pausing only momentarily on the unfinished chess game spread out on the low coffee table before his eyes focused on her. The light had dimmed; there were two windows in the living room, and although both were nearly opaque with grime and covered with yellowed, dense lace drapes, they still let in the pink hued light of the setting sun. She was easily recognizable in the half-light, and he scowled, once again feeling the sour mixture of displeasure and uneasiness.

She was sleeping on the other couch, her feet curled up under her, her head resting against the curved arm rest at the edge of the worn blue divan. Two of his books lay next to her, another on her lap. His frown deepened as he scanned the titles on the cracked leather spines, though he had his doubts that she had been able to open either of the Dark Arts texts, even less so without her wand.

The open book on her lap was another matter. _Advances in Wandless Magic Throughout the 19th Century_. But his copy was written in Russian, and unless the girl came up with a wandless translating spell, or had somehow kept her mouth shut that she actually knew the language all this time, the text was worthless to her.

Ignoring the pain, he shifted into a sitting position, his gaze never leaving her sleeping form.

The girl had changed somewhat since he had last seen her on that fateful day so many months earlier, the day he had killed Dumbledore. Physically, her body had already blossomed into that of a woman, a fact he was intimately aware of since last night, when he had stripped her of her shirt to heal the slicing hex. He imagined her riotous hair was still the same; it was braided currently, but curls had managed to free themselves, framing her pale face.

It was her eyes that had been so different. Last night, when she had faced him and the boy, bleeding to death, but determined to fight until the end, he had sensed a change in her. It wasn't until she realized who he was, when she had looked up at him, had he understood the extent of it.

After all of his ill treatment of her and her friends over the years, after every criticism and insult, she had never looked at him with such hatred. Her eyes had burned with it. Severus had taunted Potter for his inability to _Avada Kedavra_ him – the boy simply didn't have it in him to curse the older wizard with the ultimate Unforgivable.

But she was different. In that moment, he had known. _She had changed_. No longer was she just the brains of the Golden Trio, the insufferable bookworm. She was a powerful witch, more so than he had would have given her credit for even after what he knew of her from the six years as her professor.

Hermione had the ability, and the passion, to kill him.

Severus stood, wavering for a moment on his feet as he pushed the sudden sharp, intense pain to the back of his mind. He closed his eyes, standing motionless as he focused, listening to the sounds around him.

He could hear the soft, rhythmic sound of her breathing. Beyond that, there was the distant song of a lone bird, coming through the open windows upstairs. There was also the muffled lilt of music. A week after he had hidden Draco, he had purchased a radio on one of his visits into Aberdeen for supplies. There was no telling how long the boy would have to stay holed away in this century old Muggle building, with only books and Severus' infrequent company to keep him occupied. The radio had been an attempt to help the younger wizard pass the time; little had Severus realized how enamored the boy would be with the Muggle device.

And now there was Miss Granger. One more complication he didn't want, and certainly didn't need.

His thin lips pulled out into a line, his black eyes opening and focusing once again on the young woman across the room. It was hard enough keeping the boy safe, his knowledge of Draco's whereabouts still precariously hidden from Voldemort. The girl upped the stakes in a game he was already losing miserably.

Severus had almost left her to bleed to death last night. His burden was already too great; to heal her, to take her and hide her away was almost certain suicide. But he didn't have a choice. She wasn't just any witch – she was Potter's Muggle-born best friend.

The attack on Hogsmeade hadn't been random. It wasn't just another of many battles to pull Potter from the safety of Hogwarts and his friends, to force the boy to face the final defeat. No, this battle had been planned for another conquest, to separate a certain bushy-haired Gryffindor from her allies, to capture her.

For months now, Severus had feared it. He knew the Dark Lord had been preoccupied with obtaining the girl, not only to use her torture and ultimate death to irreparably injury the Boy-Who-Lived, but also to determine once and for all that his best Death Eater truly was working against the Light.

Like always, he had been on guard in front of the Dark Lord that night, so many months ago, his mind clear of everything but the carefully constructed life he had created. Severus hadn't survived this long as a spy on luck alone; he was exceptionally skilled in Occlumency and Legilimency, perhaps the top of his field, save the rare moments of the dark wizard who believed he held that position. Voldemort was terrifying in his abilities, and Severus knew it would only take one slip on his part to lose everything he had worked so hard to protect.

It had been three months earlier that one of his deepest fears had surfaced. He had been conferring with the Dark Lord, when he felt the delicate, but insistent probing of another inside his mind. As always, he remained visibly relaxed as Voldemort slid through his memories, pausing to penetrate further into those that interested him. Sometimes Severus felt it was almost a sport to the evil wizard; he seemed to relive with relish the memories of specific potions classes, belittling and punishment of Potter and his friends.

Voldemort was entertaining himself in one of the many memories from Potter's fifth year, when the direction of his scope inexplicably changed. Usually it wouldn't have been of concern, as Severus' mind was an intricate catacomb, that of which Voldemort did not have complete access. But he slipped inside one memory, over a year past, the visual seemingly innocent, and nearly forgotten in the recent spiral toward the culmination of war.

_Severus had Apparated nearly soundlessly into the dark hallway of the first floor of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. He slumped against the wall behind him, his body and mind exhausted after the latest Death Eater meeting. He hungered for rest, just a couple of hours to close his eyes and sleep and not have to think about whether tomorrow would be his last. He moved to push his weary body from the wall and sneak into a vacant bedroom, when he paused in mid-action, the visual causing his breath to catch._

_She was sitting in a rather rickety looking chair next to the open window, her body facing towards him, but her head turned as she gazed out the window. There was a book lying open on her lap, forgotten. The gentle breeze coming through the window ruffled the parchment, but she paid it no heed as she continued to stare out into the moonlit night._

_Her heavy cream robes were pushed open, exposing the thin rose nightgown she wore underneath. The light of the moon caught her in a moment of perfection; the delicate skin of her throat, the curve of her breasts under the slight cotton gown and he knew he could no longer think of her as a child. The breeze weaved through her hair, caressing the luminous mass of curls back from her face like that of an invisible lover._

He would never forget her face. Her dark eyes shone in the half-light, her lips parted with an expression of such sorrow, such longing. She was looking out the window as if waiting in burdened anticipation for the return of the wizard that held her heart.

_For a brief, intense moment, he wished that it were he. That she was sitting up past midnight, looking out into the indigo night, waiting for him. He wanted to go to her, kneel in front of her, bury his face against the supple curve of her breasts and weep. He could almost feel her slender fingers in his hair, soothing him._

_In that moment, she had been his. Hermione was his only reason for continuing this life, and he had returned again for her. He itched with the hunger to hold her close, to feel her mouth against his._

_He stood stiffly against the wall while the thoughts played out in his tortured mind. She let out a soft, nearly inaudible sigh, and the sound pulled him back into reality. He was suddenly disgusted with himself, with her and the madness that had nearly caused him to move out of his place in the darkness, to go to her, to do Merlin knows what to a young woman who was still his student. Potter's friend no less. _

This was the memory the Dark Lord had uncovered. Severus was in near shock as he sensed the other wizard pull out of his mind. Surely this would be his death, he had thought then, the insanity starting to creep in, flooding the areas of his psyche Voldemort had vacated.

When he met his red gaze, there was an odd, almost pleased look in Voldemort's inhumane eyes. Though confusion and terror coursed through him, Severus forced himself to stay relaxed, awaiting the Dark Lord to speak.

"Perhaps you are not above the carnality of your brothers as you so often have seemed to be, Severus," Voldemort spoke low, his voice still retaining somewhat of a hiss. He was smiling, and Severus held back the instinctive flinch.

"My Lord?"

"Does this girl please you, Severus?"

Carefully, but quickly, he weighed his responses to the question before giving a reply. "She is…adequate, my Lord."

Voldemort laughed then, a wicked nearly bone-rattling sound. "Adequate? Hmm, I think you down play her…_attributes_ to appease me." The word was spoken with such callousness that Severus felt a sudden desire to protect the insufferable know-it-all from this of his two masters. Before he could form a reply, the Dark Lord had waved his pale hand in an irreverent gesture of silence.

"She will be yours, then, Severus. Consider her…a gift."

_A gift_. Severus grunted. The chit was more of a curse. He continued to stare at her sleeping form, the stark memory of his almost fatal encounter with Voldemort fading as his dark gaze absorbed her features.

Maybe he had truly become mad. The precarious balance of his life, hiding who he actually was, living lies for nearly four decades had finally caught up with him. How ironic it would be that his undoing wouldn't be the Dark Lord, or Potter, but this mere slip of a woman, an eighteen-year-old witch born of Muggle parents. The gods really did have it in for him.

He turned abruptly, stalking over to the lone armchair in the dark corner of the living room. The temperature had dropped somewhat as the sun had dipped lower in the sky, but he left his battered robes on the couch, comfortable in his black slacks, tall boots, and tattered white dress shirt. Severus peeled off the bloodstained gloves, dropping them carelessly on the worn, wooden floor as he walked over to the corner.

He settled into the overstuffed chair, the wood creaking slightly with his movements. Reaching to the left of the armchair, his fingertips made contact with the cool glass of the bottle of Firewhisky. If there was ever a time to indulge in the numbness of alcohol, this would be it.

A quick, sharp intake of breath from the girl brought his attention back to her. The relaxed peacefulness of sleep was gone; her lips were parted, her eyes squinted shut, and her hands had drawn into loose fists. Whatever tranquility she had been cocooned within, a nightmare had broached it.

His fingers unfurled from the neck of the bottle, and he leaned forward in the chair, watching her as her body contorted under the visions of her unconscious mind. She was breathing fast, shallow, and he could sense the distress of the night before, of her witnessing the death of Miss Brown.

"Miss Granger." His voice was low, but stern, silky, but strict.

She jerked, the book on her lap tumbling to the wooden floor with a thud. Hermione gasped, her eyes opening but unseeing as she bolted upright on the couch, causing the other two books next to her to topple to the ground.

"_No!_" The cry came out scratchy, but fierce, and he was caught off guard as the stacks of books on either side of his chair flew upwards and out, spraying around him in a gust of leather and parchment.

Severus stared at her, bewildered. Hermione was sitting up, visibly trembling, her fingers digging painfully into the worn blue fabric as she looked back at him and the pile of books surrounding him.

_Wandless magic_. But it hadn't come from any book. It had come from her.

His mouth drew out in a thin line as he watched her try to control her shuddery breathing, her hands alternately pulling into fists and relaxing.

"Merlin, I thought it was all a dream. It's real. Gods, it's bloody real," she whispered, laughing shakily. Her glassy brown eyes focused on him and she bit her lower lip. "Why? Why? Oh, gods, why? I saw her die, I saw him kill her…"

"Stop your sniveling, girl," he cut her off, distracted. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and she stood abruptly, her velvet gown flowing around her in a way familiar to that of one certain professor.

The room had darkened since she had fallen asleep after trying to translate the Russian text. From his spot in the shadowy corner, he was nearly invisible to her. His bloodstained, tattered shirt was still open, exposing his pale, battle-scarred chest. Oddly, there were books scattered around him, some open and bent at weird angles on the worn, wooden floor.

His black eyes were luminous, glittering with some unidentifiable emotion. She felt the initial fear, that unspoken warning that he had killed Dumbledore, that he was the biggest threat next to Voldemort. But she had witnessed Lavender die. And she knew the pain of her best friend, a boy willing to give up everything to have the Light win. She intimately understood the cost of war.

She would not fear him.

"Traitor." Her condemnation came out on a whisper and he stared back at her, his black eyes shining in the half-light.

"Are you trying to explain to me something I do not already understand, Miss Granger? Has your mind just encompassed this fact and you feel the burning need to share?" His question came out sharply, accompanied by a short, humorless laugh. She blinked, and then seemed to bristle under his dark gaze.

"I hate you."

"I expected no less," he replied, leaning back into the armchair, crossing his arms across his bare chest.

"Why, then? Why did you bring me here? Why did you save me?"

Severus sighed, looking away and at the pile of books scattered at his feet. "That is your problem, child. You always wanted an answer. You never learned that sometimes it is better if you don't know everything."

He glanced back up at her, frowning. "A wizard may move further across the chessboard if he doesn't know all of the plays. You always relied too much on the provided information instead of instinct. That error will cause your death."

Her lower lip trembled as the tears burned her eyes. It was too much. All of this was too unreal, too overwhelming for her to handle.

"You should have killed me, then!" she yelled, turning sharply and bolting for the stairs. He moved faster than she had thought possible across the living room, his fingers circling her wrist harshly. Her sharp gasp was lost as he jerked her around, pushing her back against the wall to the right of the fireplace.

Her breathing was labored, strained as she pressed back against the cool wall, away from him. He wasn't touching her anymore, but his hands were pressed flat against the wallpaper on either side of her shoulders, essentially trapping her. He was much too close, the pale flesh of his chest nearly brushing against the bodice of her velvet gown, his head bent, though the angle only seemed to heighten the realization that he was much taller and larger than her.

His proximity caused her body to unconsciously react where his words had failed. Hermione couldn't control the trembling, and cursed herself as one tear burned unwillingly down her cheek.

"Do you really wish to die, Miss Granger?" His voice, so soft and gentle, only seemed to tease further reaction from her. She bit her lip to still the chattering of her teeth.

"No," she whispered, blinking as his black eyes bore into her.

"Then don't use that as a taunt, girl," he replied quietly. His dark gaze shifted across her face, taking in her wide, brown eyes, to her parted lips. "Next time, I may take your request seriously."

"Professor…"

He grabbed her upper arms, his fingers curling painfully into her flesh. "I told you not to call me that! I am no longer your professor, and will likely never teach again. Do you not understand this?"

She stared up at him, her wet eyes focusing on his pale face. In a way, she was seeing him for the first time. He was no longer the greasy bat of the dungeons, the feared Death Eater, killer of Dumbledore. Standing in front of her, towering over her was a man, not handsome by any standards, but striking. His presence was almost unearthly; his eyes were piercing, godlike in their intensity.

"Yes." Her reply was no more than a gasp, and she moistened her lower lip, unsure of everything.

He watched the movement of her mouth, his black gaze shifting back up to her brown eyes. "Then say it."

"Sir?"

"My name, Miss Granger. Surely you know it."

She was blinking again, unable to stop the involuntary reaction to his odd questioning. Her breathing was still shallow, and she tried in vain to even it out. "Yes."

His grip had eased slightly on her arms, and his thumbs were moving against her in an unbidden caress. His imperceptible movement forward had him within centimeters of her; he could feel the rush of her breath against his face, smell the heady scent of the rose soap she had bathed with that morning.

"Say it."

She wavered on her feet, only held still by his grip. Something was happening; she felt different, unsure, under his penetrating stare. Hermione could smell the mixture of potions on his breath, the smoky scent of his clothes, ripe from battle.

"Seve-rus."

"Mmm," he hummed softly, angling down further towards her, nearly tasting her erratic breathing now, feeling the warm rush against his mouth.

"Best in your class, Miss Granger, and you can't perform this simple task without a stutter?" he taunted her softly, watching the anger flare in her eyes. He shifted closer, and her expression changed, her pupils dilating in response to his closeness.

For a moment, he could almost believe she was aroused by him. The darkening of her eyes, the quickness of her breathing and the trembling of her body; he could fool himself that these were all signs of her desire for him.

"_Severus_."

His name, spoken so quietly, softly by her was an endearment. It almost made him forget that he was a right bastard, and would always be.

Severus shifted to close the gap between them, and he felt her body slacken against him, his grip the only thing holding her standing up against the wall. Instead of taking her mouth, his rough cheek slid against hers, his breath warm against her ear.

"Fifty points…to Gryffindor."

She sobbed, the sound strangled. He tore away from her, turning without a backwards glance and strode past the kitchen down the dark hallway. Hermione felt her knees give way, and she slid down the cold wall, crumpling against the worn wooden flooring.

She curled into herself as the tears burned down her pale face, the hurt and pain of the past twenty-four hours finally coming out.

Things would never be the same again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** Reviews are my favorite thing. Really, who needs chocolate?

**A/N:** Quotation is from George Santayana. This chapter was originally 30 pages long – I had to cut it in two because of the length. So there is quite a bit of Malfoy in this one. I'll be posting Part Six soon, which will be heavy on SS/HG.

**Chapter Five**

It was a long time before the grief finally waned, the last of the tears drying on her skin as the light of the room changed from pink to a dusky violet as the sun settled further down the sky. The temperature seemed to have moved along with the light, and she found herself shivering against the cold, her back against the peeling wallpaper, her arms uncurling from around her knees to rest by her sides as the room came back into focus.

The fading light didn't soften her surroundings any; in actuality, it seemed to give the room an almost sinister appearance. From her angle on the floor, the two blue couches had turned into rather weathered, beaten monstrosities. The soapstone chess set which had contentedly reminded her of her maternal grandfather this morning was now a plethora of twisted, elongated shadows, hazy sunlight flickering across bits of the lacquered board underneath the pieces. The stack of books that had been so inviting earlier now loomed like dark knights, staring down at her from their position around the perimeter of the room. There was a haphazard pile of books around the armchair in the corner; parchment was exposed in some, the spines twisted in odd angles.

Hermione frowned, biting her lower lip. It hadn't been like that when she had unwillingly fallen asleep trying to translate the Russian text. Had Snape thrown them about for some reason? She remembered faintly hearing noises, still immersed in that wretched nightmare with Lavender and the Death Eaters.

She closed her eyes briefly, forcing the thought out. It didn't matter. Her eyelids flickered open again as her gaze drifted past the living room, taking in the rest of her surroundings as she searched for any sign of Snape.

Her heart skipped a beat when her careful assessment of the room came to the entrance of the dark kitchen, her brown eyes widening at the sight of the silvery mask lying harmlessly against the weathered, wood planked floor. It hadn't moved from where Snape had dropped it after Apparating back to the farmhouse.

Hermione stared at the mask, the distant sound of music coming from upstairs fading even further to a static-like hum, the pounding of her heart swelling up against her throat, teasing forth the adrenaline and sudden raw fear.

She crawled soundlessly across the wooden floor in the darkening room, reaching out hesitantly towards the object. When her fingertips made contact, she drew back a fraction. There was no spell, but the silvery metal was cold, shocking her backwards for a moment in her own reality. Without really planning it, she reached forward again, her fingers curling around the mask and lifting it from the floor.

In her studies, she had seen better examples of masks through history, magical and Muggle, which from an aesthetic standpoint could rouse fear in the viewer. And artistically, as a sculpture, one might consider the silver formation to be on the crude side. It was just an object, something that held no power and which only served to cover the face of the evil coward underneath.

Her perfect logic could not stop the sudden tremor in her hands, or the quiver to her bottom lip that she ruthlessly bit in an attempt to pretend she felt nothing.

But she felt the fear and pain. She had watched her die.

"_I can't leave you, Hermione!"_

_The Death Eaters were getting closer, didn't he understand? They had to protect Harry._

_"Choose another time to debate me, Ron! Bloody go!"_

_He had stared at her with those blue eyes of his; he was an open book to her with his eyes, loyal, fierce, loving. If she never saw him again, she would always remember the look he gave her before he led the children out of the burning Hogsmeade._

_"Avada Kedavra!"_

_It had been one of them, of course. Black robes, and that grotesque silver mask. The green light seemed to speed towards them faster than the rough, wretched sound of the wizard's voice._

_Lavender had gasped Hermione's name before the Unforgivable had stolen her life leaving behind an empty shell, her eyes open but dead._

Hermione's grip tightened around the cold metal, her knuckles turning white from the force. For what purpose had Lavender died? So many like her, so many surely to come, and for what purpose did their deaths serve?

_War._

One dark wizard's quest for power, spanning decades, had them now hurdling deeper into war. More would die, and undoubtedly, they would hold closer ties to her than Lavender. All because one man had an unparalleled thirst for power, a need to be worshipped as a god, and an unwavering hatred towards Muggles and Muggle-borns.

_Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it._

Hermione's fingers loosened from the metal as the quotation came to her, the whispered voice inside her head sounding unnervingly similar to Dumbledore's. She blinked, the silver mask in her hands sliding out of focus for a moment as she tried to decipher what could only be a clue. She didn't believe in the nonsense that Trelawney taught, but Hermione couldn't ignore the goose bumps that prickled up her arms.

_Learn from history._

She wasn't powerless. So her wand was missing, and she was imprisoned by her former professor, killer of the Headmaster, and forced to spend time with a very odd, unnervingly friendly Draco Malfoy. But she still had her mind. As Harry and Ron had repeatedly told her over the years it was her brain that was her best weapon.

Hermione glanced down at the mask again, frowning thoughtfully. She lowered it to the floor, the metal clinking softly against the wood. Her mind racing once again, she stood up, her knees creaking with the sudden movement after being bent, thighs pressed against her chest for so long.

Walking soundlessly but surely across the room, she picked up the fire poker she had left leaning against the coffee table when she had helped Malfoy with Snape. Fingers curling determinedly around the rusted weapon, she made it the rest of the way to the far wall and the two filthy, darkened windows.

With her free hand she pushed back the yellowed lace curtains, heavy with decades of accumulated dust. The glass was in worse condition than the fabric; it was a shock that any light made it in at all, the layer of grime was so thick.

In a move that would have made Ron swoon, she spit on the velvet of her shirt sleeve, pulling the fabric up to cover her hand before touching the glass. It took several seconds of scrubbing before she could make out a hazy image of the surroundings of the farmhouse.

Uneasiness twisted low in her stomach as she realized Malfoy hadn't lied to her. The rolling, lush greenery beyond the dirty pane of glass was reminiscent of the Scotland countryside. She could make out farmland and several lone sheep grazing, but no other houses dotted the landscape. Banchory was a small town, with several villages, and if they really were ten minutes south of the area, Snape had chosen a perfectly isolated spot for their safe house.

No one would hear her if she screamed, even on the improbability that Snape hadn't set every silencing, disillusionment and concealment charm known to Wizard-kind on the house. Not that she would want to involve innocent Muggles anyway, even if there was the slim chance they could help her escape.

She was in this alone. She couldn't wait around expecting to be rescued. For all she knew, Harry, Ron and the rest of the Order thought she was dead, or worse, captured by the Death Eaters.

Hermione turned away from the window, once again facing the darkened room. She bit her lip, her thoughts returning to that of her captor, and the unknown motive behind his actions. At the time of her kidnapping, she had assumed she would be taken to Voldemort to be used against the Light. But instead he had healed her, provided her with a bed and clothing, made sure she was fed. And then there was the revelation that he had hidden Malfoy for nearly half a year now, kept him safe from their Dark Lord and the Death Eaters that wanted to kill him for failing his given task.

The dark hallway beyond the living room beckoned her; her old professor had stormed out of the room in that direction after their confrontation and had yet to return. She assumed he had built a potions lab somewhere on the first floor, or perhaps the cellar if the house had one. Other than his spying, she knew his main function was as a Potions Master for Voldemort. He would obviously require a lab in the safe house to continue brewing.

Her fingers tightened unconsciously around the fire poker as her eyes narrowed. _She could go to him now, demand answers, ask for her wand…_

She snorted. Her only real option was to sneak up on him and disable him with the fire poker, but he had decades more experience than her at this game. No one snuck up on Professor Snape. She was just a girl, and he had always made sure she knew it. He was her superior; so she was the "smartest witch of her age", he would always win well within fifty moves.

_Though it had never been so personal before._ He had never been so near to her, scared her in such a way her heart had fluttered madly and there had been a sudden ache low in her belly. She had felt lost in his black eyes, the smell of him intoxicating at such close range.

He had touched her; she could still feel the circular caress of his thumbs against her upper arms, the memory causing goose bumps to rise on her flesh. He had been close enough to her that she could almost taste his breath. Other than something foul, which had been one of many rumors spread about her former professor, she smelled the Blood Replenishing Potion and a subtle mixture of cloves, sage, and cedar.

For a moment, she had thought he intended to kiss her. Instead of stiffening, or preparing for battle, her body had slackened against his, so much that his grip had tightened on her upper arms to keep her from falling.

In one brief instant, she had felt the betrayal of her body, the sudden slivery burst of anticipation. She wouldn't have recognized the odd feeling except she had experienced something similar each of the three times Ron had kissed her. But with Ron, it had been pleasant, comfortably familiar. The intensity of her reaction to Snape scared her; in that moment, she _wanted_ him to kiss her. She had needed his mouth on hers, needed him to press her back against the wall, as he tasted her.

She felt revulsion at that split second inundation of lust. It made no sense. He was a traitor. He had killed Dumbledore. All this time, he was not a spy for them, but for Voldemort. There was not a wizard she hated more except for the Dark Lord himself.

_Perhaps she was mad._

Hermione blinked, staring into the darkness. _No. No, she couldn't think that._ She had to keep her head straight, learn as much as she could and make it out of here alive.

Pushing out the disturbing thoughts of possible insanity, she walked quietly across the wooden floor, coming to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. She was undeniably curious about the rest of the first floor and the likely potions lab, but she wanted to explore the upstairs foremost while she knew Snape was located somewhere else. She wanted to find her wand, or if nothing else, her tattered robes and Lavender's wand. The other girl's wand wouldn't work as well for her as it did for its former owner but at least Hermione would have a magical instrument to help her.

She paused at the stairs, noticing the dirty light switch in its brass plate against the peeling flowered wallpaper. She glanced towards the ceiling, for the first time taking in the open light fixture in the middle of the yellowed rosette ceiling medallion. The bulbs were missing.

The kitchen had modern appliances and she had bathed in warm water this morning, so she knew the house had electricity. The bulbs had to have been removed intentionally, but for what purpose she couldn't imagine.

Hermione climbed the stairs slowly, testing the creaks in the wood at each step. There were fifteen steps and she memorized them as she went, mapping the sounds out in her head so in the future she would be able to use them with minimal noise.

On the second floor there were three doors to the left and two to the right along the threadbare-carpeted hallway. She knew the first, door-less room to her right was the bedroom in which she had slept the night before. Ignoring it in the meantime, she turned to the first door on her left, pressing her free hand hesitantly against the cool wood. When the door didn't budge, her fingers curled around the antique glass doorknob, twisting it gently. _Locked._

She sighed, staring at the dark paneled door. If for some off chance the room wasn't magically warded, she imagined she could breach the worn wood with the fire poker, but that would bring her more attention at this time than she desired. At this point, she wanted to gather information, not cause the precious little freedoms she realized she had currently to be taken away.

The next, smaller doorway to the left led to a bathroom. It was a small, windowless room that pretty much mirrored that of the water closet adjacent to her bedroom. She spared the contents a cursory glance before heading back out into the hallway.

The music she heard while downstairs was much clearer now. She smiled slightly, recognizing the tune, the Rolling Stones one of her father's favorite groups. It was odd, and faintly disconcerting to hear _Honky Tonk Women_ in a place so far removed from Muggle London. It only seemed to add to the queasiness that had been churning in her stomach since she had woken this morning in this strange place.

Fingers coiled nearly painfully around the rusted fire poker, she stood in front of the door, pushing against the wood so it swung open with a low groan.

This room was larger than hers. It had two windows, the burgundy velvet curtains drawn back to let in the falling light and gentle breeze from the open panes. The wrought iron bed had three pillows and was covered haphazardly with a thin velvet comforter that matched the drapes. There was a hefty wardrobe, a low bookshelf crammed full with books, and a rather scrappy looking table with two antique, straight back chairs on either side. The radio sat on the scratched surface of the table surrounded by several candles, a large gas lamp, and an open placket of batteries.

The platinum haired wizard looked up from his position leaning up against the side of the bed, his cold gray-blue gaze shifting from her flushed faced to the fire poker in her hand.

"Come to smash my head in with that thing, Granger?" he asked, smirking.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like?"

She frowned, pushing the door the rest of the way open and walking into the room. Hermione made her way around the bed, standing in front of him, taking in the odd scene with wide eyes while biting her lower lip.

Malfoy was surrounded by large sheets of paper, a bulky sketching pad on the floor in front of him. Each of the drawings scattered about was some sort of magical creature, mostly dragons by the looks of it. In his right hand he held a stubby piece of charcoal, his fingertips nearly black with the dust from the drawing implement.

"There are three channels on this radio thing, and this one they call classical rock. These Muggles are called the Stones, or the Rolling Stones, if you want to be specific. They play this song at least once a week. It's kind of weird, kind of funny. You ever been to Memphis, Granger?"

She shook her head silently, still staring at him in disbelief.

"Neither have I. Though Severus bought me a book a couple of months ago about popular American culture. Memphis could be interesting. Though I don't imagine they get a lot of Britons there. Too far inland? I don't know. The American wizards I've met have been an odd bunch. I imagine their Muggles are a bit on the strange side as well."

Her knees suddenly felt weak and she drifted down to the wood-planked floor, her velvet gown pooling around her. The fire poker lay forgotten next her as her gaze shifted from Malfoy to the drawings around him.

"You drew these?"

He frowned at her question. "What, do you think a house elf snuck in here and dallied these up for me?"

She spared his remark a scowl before looking back down at the sketches. "May I?"

He nodded wordlessly, watching her as she picked up the drawing closest to her. It was a Peruvian Vipertooth, the dragon rendered expressively realistic with a mix of black and white charcoals. The vivid sketch was signed simply _Draco_.

"Merlin! These are quite good, Malfoy." She looked up from the drawing, her lips parted in shock at his hidden talent. His face was flushed, his gaze intent on her as he gave her a hesitant, crooked smile.

"You think? Honestly?" His voice was nearly a whisper, and she realized that he feared rejection. It occurred to her that she had never seen Malfoy draw anything, not even doodle in his workbooks when they were at Hogwarts. She was curious why he would keep such a talent hidden when it was just one more thing he could brag about.

"Of course." She glanced up from the drawing, once again feeling that sense of being outside of reality. Had these past several months with Severus so changed him from the conceited, hateful, obnoxious boy she thought she had known so well? Had he always had some sort of morality to him, and kept it hidden for whatever reason? Their discussion of art from early came back to her. It was one thing that he had toured famous Muggle galleries with his aristocratic, Death Eater father; it was another that he drew without magic, his hands covered in charcoal dust, his face reflecting a peace with the activity she had never seen in him before.

"Your father didn't approve, did he." It wasn't a question. She stared at him as the realization dawned, and he looked away, rolling the sliver of charcoal between his fingertips as the music faded for a moment, _Honky Tonk Women_ replaced with another tune.

"Two for Tuesday," Malfoy mumbled, leaning over his sketch pad to continue shading the half-drawn image. Hermione blinked, realizing it was another Rolling Stones song.

"Malfoy."

His hand paused in mid action, but he didn't look up from the drawing. "It was cultural to enjoy centuries old art by the Muggles. But to actually try to replicate it…that was forbidden. That would be beneath us as wizards, as Purebloods."

Malfoy glanced up at her, and she moved back a fraction on her heels. His eyes were wet, and he was looking at her as if seeing beyond her and this small, dingy room of the farmhouse.

"I was always drawing. With quills, bits of charcoal, with my fingers in the condensation of the windows at Malfoy Manor. My father," he paused, unblinking, and she flinched slightly as he reflexively shattered the sliver of charcoal between his fingertips.

"My father found my sketch book under my bed when I was ten. It was something Mother brought me from their last trip to Paris. I drew everything, all of my thoughts, my dreams…

"He beat me until I lost consciousness. I kept on drawing, but I always kept it extremely well hidden after that. It was another filthy Mudblood activity, and to engage in it would be to open myself up to ridicule by proper Wizarding society."

Hermione wanted to scoff at him, but at that moment, she felt unwanted sympathy. It was disconcerting, a feeling she never would have thought she would have for the platinum-haired wizard sitting across from her.

"It's a good thing you never gave it up," she spoke softly, resting the drawing of the Peruvian Vipertooth back on the wooden flooring. Her gaze shifted silently across the rest of the sketches as she tried to ignore the odd look he was giving her.

"Do you think…" he stopped, moistening his lower lip in a nervous gesture. "Do you think I could make it as a Muggle if I had to? I mean, exist in the Muggle world?"

Her head tilted a fraction as she regarded him and the odd question. "Why, Malfoy?"

He turned his attention back to the drawing, picking up a slender unscathed piece of charcoal from the dirty plastic box to his left and started to sketch again. "I'm just saying, if for some reason I never get to return to Wizarding society. Severus says there is a possibility I could pass as just another Muggle Uni student if it comes down to that."

Her heartbeat quickened in her chest as she realized what he was asking. Somewhere deep down, Malfoy knew he could never return to the Wizarding world, at least in Europe. After nearly six months of hiding with Severus, he was weighing the options for the rest of his life. And somehow, somewhere, he had decided on the possibility of living as a Muggle, going to university in the arts, and never returning to the world that had been his only home.

"Granger?"

Brown eyes met cold, gray-blue ones, and she relaxed her hands, which had instinctively drawn into fists. Her lips parted on a reply, but she was lost on what to say. What could she say? It was if their roles had been reversed; he was now faced with the daunting reality of living in a world he was completely unfamiliar with, a place that would serve as his salvation even as he would have to watch ever step he made, every word he spoke, always knowing he didn't really belong.

After the seconds ticked past and she failed to answer him, he returned to his drawing, his pale hand sliding across the paper as he blended the edges of the new dragon. Hermione watched as the Hungarian Horntail appeared among the lines and shadows of the sketch paper. She hadn't lied; Malfoy was quite the artist.

"I heard you singing this morning," Hermione whispered. "It sounded like a lullaby."

"Dodo, L'enfant Do." His jaw jerked, his eyes closing briefly on a harsh sigh as the memories came back. "When Severus first brought me here, I had horrible nightmares. He sung it to me to comfort me."

"Professor Snape?"

"How many Severuses do you know, Granger?"

As she stared at him in mild shock, he brushed his hands quickly together, black dust swirling about. After rubbing the residual charcoal powder on his dark blue jeans, he reached into his left pocket and pulled out the watch.

"Severus should be making supper now. I need to clean up." Malfoy set the sketchpad to his right and stood, his hands loose at his hips as he stared down at her. "We'll have to talk later. Merlin knows, we have enough time."

She watched silently as he walked without another backwards glance out of the room. Hermione looked around once again at all of the drawings, the various dragons and assorted magical creatures beautifully rendered by a boy she didn't really know at all, who depended on a man for which she had craved acknowledgement all of these years. A man who was still more mysterious than the boy.

And now she was trapped with the both of them. For the insufferable know-it-all, she didn't really know anything at all. In this situation, she was hopelessly loss.

And that was the only thing she really knew for certain.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** Each review makes me squeal like a banshee. Seriously. I love _each_ and _every _one!!!

**A/N:** As promised, here is the second half of the "mega" chapter. It didn't come out to be the 15 pages I had thought because I trimmed a bit off of the end (don't worry, it was extraneous fluff). Oh, and I have a beta (um, woohoo!), so I will be reposting chapters shortly. And Whitehound – thank you most kindly for the suggestions, they will appear once I upload the revised chapters.

**Chapter Six**

It was the sound of running water that forced her once again into reality, piercing the static numbness that had cocooned her briefly from where she sat on the cold, wood-planked floor of Malfoy's room. Hermione shifted hesitantly to her feet, the velvet gown swirling around her calves with the upward movement.

Malfoy had left her alone in his bedroom, surrounded by his beautiful charcoal drawings so he could clean up for dinner. The question in her head as to why he didn't just Scourgify the black dust from his hands almost made her laugh with the absurdity of it all. He was wearing Muggle clothing and engaging in a rather hands-on Muggle activity with his wand nowhere in sight. In this situation, it would have seemed peculiar if he _had_ pulled his wand out and performed the cleansing spell.

She was at a loss at what exact point the world as she had known it had been tossed upside down. Malfoy was so different, had seemingly changed drastically from the several months since he had last engaged her in one of their childhood rows. And the professor…

She picked up the rusted fire poker, absently turning off the radio before walking out of Malfoy's bedroom and back into the dark hallway.

The smell of fire engaged her senses; the distant sound of crackling wood and accompanying warmth made her realize the ancient fireplace actually still functioned, and was probably a necessity at night in this part of Scotland. It also clued her into the fact that Snape had been back into the living room since she had left, and as Malfoy suggested, was probably in the kitchen conjuring up something for supper.

Fingers curling tighter around her weapon, she walked quietly down the hallway, stopping at the edge of the stairs. The living room was nearly dark now, save the fire flickering its warm, orange-hued glow across the weathered furniture, and the residual, electric generated light from the kitchen. She could hear the methodical, almost rhythmic sound of chopping; it was eerily familiar from that of Potions class, and she could clearly visualize her former professor back in the classroom, slicing through an Erumpent tail in small slivers.

She started her descent, her memorization of the creaks in the stairs now shifted in reverse as she soundlessly made her way back down into the living room. The room was significantly warmer now, the crackling fire almost comforting. The large pile of books that had been scattered about from earlier was now tidied away in the surrounding stacks. She could see stars through the small patch of glass she had cleaned from the grime-laden window, the inky night reminding her that she had been in this situation for over twenty-four hours now.

Hermione turned from the low-lit room and walked towards the entrance of the kitchen, pausing abruptly at the visual. Her heartbeat seemed to quicken, her lips parting a fraction in a mixture of surprise and uncertainty.

Snape stood at the counter, a knife in his right hand and the thin, nearly bony fingers of his left hand securing the yellow onion as he sliced into it. He was still wearing the black trousers and heavy boots from earlier, but he had traded the tattered white button-down shirt for a new, clean one, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the collar undone by several buttons. She could clearly see for the first time the Mark on his bare, lean forearm, the tattoo dark and foreboding against his pale skin. He had always made a point to hide it in the past, to keep his former "Death-Eater" status concealed from his students. It reminded her once again that he was no longer her professor, and she was no longer one of his students.

Her gaze shifted over him helplessly, driven by her inherent curiosity and the draw of his presence. Even though she thought of him as a traitor, hated him for all of the crimes he had committed under Voldemort, she could not deny the aura he possessed, the infallible demeanor he held whether he had his wand at ready, casting some Unforgivable, or as he was now, chopping an onion.

Her head tilted slightly as she stared at him. His hair was pulled back, tied low at his neck by a dark leather string. She could not remember ever seeing his black locks drawn away from his face in such a way before, and she took the moment to examine his profile.

He was extremely pale, the hue of his skin only adding to the starkness of his hair and eyes. She imagined his long, hooked nose would have overpowered any other face, but on his it fit perfectly, lending an almost menacing aristocracy to his features. His lips were compressed thin with concentration as he continued to cut the onion into slices.

No one would ever call Severus Snape beautiful, but there was something about him that was definitely alluring, something powerful and darkly mysterious that most wizards lacked. She was suddenly, quite shockingly aware that he was a man, and she was a woman, and if his earlier physical display towards her hadn't woken her to the fact, in that moment she knew she was on the wrong end of this power struggle.

"Enjoying the view, Miss Granger?" The question came out low and silky, his lean fingers never pausing from the task in front of him. Her face flushed as she realized he had been aware of her standing at the edge of the doorway the entire time, blatantly staring at him.

She glanced away from the dark wizard, giving the brightly lit kitchen a cursory glance before starting to walk into the room.

"Please leave your weapon outside of the kitchen. One generally cooks better when there isn't the threat of a fire poker to the back of the skull," he continued, his tone firm but tinged with faint amusement, his back still to her.

She hesitated for a moment, weighing the options. She would be defenseless, but then his wand was nowhere in sight. Then again, the predator that was Snape didn't need a wand to cause her harm. As a student under him for nearly seven years, that much she knew for certain.

Sighing shortly, she rested the fire poker against the living room wall before walking into the kitchen to stand behind one of the dinette chairs. Her gaze shifted from the professor to the stove next to him, taking in the two frying pans and several bowls, one nearly overflowing with string beans.

"The potion vial on the table. Drink it."

She glanced back at the small kitchen table and the amber vial resting innocently at the edge. The pain potion from earlier was still in her system; she was quite aware of the hexing slice, but it was more of an anomalous sensation than an ache.

"What is it?" Her voice was hoarse, and she swallowed, pressing her fingertips gently against her throat.

"If I wanted to poison you, Miss Granger, I would have had the good sense to do so by now," he replied. She watched as he slid the onion slices to one side of the wooden cutting board, picking up the two carrots that lay on the counter to his left. He began to chop the bright orange vegetables in much the same fashion he had with the onion.

Hermione picked up the vial and uncorked it, holding it up to her nose to smell the contents. She frowned, glancing up at Snape to find he was still facing away from her. It was a vitamin potion. He was not only feeding her but also keeping her healthy; for what purpose she still had no idea.

She downed the contents of the vial in one swallow, nearly choking on the taste. She coughed, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth.

"Merlin! You couldn't have masked the taste a bit?" she asked, pursing her lips at the vile brew.

"There are better uses for my time then flavoring a potion into some sort of sweet."

She set the potion vial back onto the tabletop, the kitchen once again falling into silence except for the rhythmic sound of the blade against the cutting board. Hermione watched him for a moment, the muscles of his lean back moving under the white cotton of his shirt as he continued to prepare dinner.

"I want my wand back," she whispered.

Severus paused, the knife blade pressed against the skin of the carrot. He had been expecting her request, but hadn't thought she would work up the courage so soon.

"No."

"Sir, I believe you do not want to kill me, or as you have stated before, I would already be dead," she spoke softly, her fingernails digging into her palms as she tried to keep her voice steady, her nerve wavering a fraction.

"That is correct, Miss Granger."

"Then I would like my wand back, Sir."

"The answer is still no," he answered, setting the knife down flat on the cutting board. Hearing the small huff, he turned sharply to face her.

It had surprised him that she was still wearing the velvet gown he had Transfigured for her, but he had heard the shift of the fabric when she had walked into the living room. Her hair was still tied back into the plait, but more of it had seemed to free itself, surrounding her face in loose curls. Her face was flushed; the pink hue flattered her features, save for the fact he knew it was an indication of her foolish Gryffindor courage. Even in certain death, she would throw herself headlong into battle for the betterment of the cause.

"But I…"

"Did I not make myself clear the first time?" he snarled, cutting her off. "And don't go snooping around here looking for Miss Brown's wand either. I've destroyed it, and it is of no use to you anymore."

Her face paled, her breath catching. "You've done what?"

"It would have been little use to you anyway, Miss Granger. Utilizing another's wand is always tricky, and mostly dangerous. I saved you the trouble."

"I was going to give that to her parents," she whispered, her chest suddenly constricting. It was the pain, she felt it again and the visual of Lavender curled up against her as the Death Eater took her life. _No, there was nothing, nothing she could have done…_

"So they could look back on it and sentimentalize how their daughter was killed unmercifully by the worst of curses, without meaning or justice? Is that how you wish your parents to remember _your_ death, girl?"

She blinked, her fingernails again digging into her palms as she forced back the tears. They were burning her eyes, brought on not by sadness but anger. How _could_ he? How could he not even _feel_?

"Gods, don't you feel at all?" she asked, her voice shaking with heightened emotion. He stared at her, his black gaze shifting from her wide shining eyes to her parted lips.

"We are governed more by sentiment than reasoning. It is foolhardiness. One stays alive longer if he thinks with his mind and not his heart."

Sorrow suddenly replaced the anger, and she looked at him, _really_ looked at him. Was that how he had lived his life for nearly four decades? Had others been so cruel to him that he had shut off his emotions entirely?

"Merlin…"

He saw her thoughts without using Legilimency, his black eyes narrowing on a scowl. "Do _not_ pity me, Miss Granger! I am not one of your damn causes and I will not…"

"I'm only trying to understand, Professor!"

"Have I not warned you about that title?" he growled. He pushed away from the counter, and she backed up instinctively. "Or do you like to test my patience?"

The angry retort died on her lips and she halted in her movement away from him, the odd feeling in her head and the liquid sensation giving her pause.

He saw the strange look cross her face before he noticed the blood streaming out of her nose. Her breathing was still rough from their arguing, but she appeared confused, almost lost.

Snape reached into his trouser pocket, pulling out the white handkerchief. Before she could question him or the situation, he had the cloth pressed under her nose, his free hand gripping her upper arm.

She started to say something, her voice muffled, and he shook his head silently, leading her across the weathered tile floor to a nearby chair.

"Shhh, child," he whispered soothingly, pulling her down to sit in the wooden chair, and then rocking back on his heels so he was crouched in front of her. "Just relax."

He eased his grip from her arm, his left hand resting under her jaw as his right continued to hold the fabric against her nose. One of her hands was against his, and he felt the faint tremor to her, only confirming his assumption that she was unused to this affliction.

Snape tilted her head, leaning forward to check her pupils. He felt rather than heard her gasp, her breathing warm against his forearm.

"I won't hurt you," he murmured, his lean fingers moving in a gentle caress across the soft skin of her cheek as he looked into her eyes. As he had thought, her pupils appeared normal.

"Tell me, has this ever occurred before?"

She shook her head, the movement limited with both of his hands practically cradling her face. He sighed, his eyes closing briefly as he exhaled deeply.

He should have known there would be consequences. One did not play with unfocused, large feats of wandless magic without some repercussions. The fact that she was capable of it at all proved that she was an anomaly, but then it was common belief that significant trauma could awaken the talent in those previously unengaged.

"What's happening to me?" she asked, the question muffled against the handkerchief.

He studied her for a moment, his mind rolling through the possibilities and penalties of her new ability, and whether or not it was even wise to reveal his thoughts to her. Then again, there was little doubt she would come to the correct conclusion on her own and with probable consequences. In addition, if he was honest with her it would build her trust in him again, and that illogical emotion would benefit them both.

"Do you recall your dream from earlier, Miss Granger? Whilst you were with me in the living room?" he asked her quietly, his black eyes fixed on her. She blinked, nervous under the directness of his gaze and still bewildered by the steady stream of blood flowing from her nose.

"I was…from last night. Lavender, the Death Eaters, I couldn't do anything…"

"Focus now," he whispered, leaning ever so slightly forward. Her breathing changed a fraction with the movement, her eyelids drifting lower as her head tilted back, cradled by his hand.

"There was a bang. It was like a cannon, kind of like from one of those old World War Two movies my father used to watch on the BBC…"

"Mmm. Just one? Think."

"Two more…there were two more and I saw the Death Eater in front of me. I had to stop him. I had to do something…"

She gasped suddenly, her eyes wide. His hand had moved again, shifting from her neck back to her upper arm, keeping her steady as she rocked forward in the chair.

"The books! Merlin, I thought it was you!"

He laughed darkly, keeping the pressure on the handkerchief as his grip tightened a fraction around her arm. "Do you honestly think I would scatter my treasured books around like rubbish, Miss Granger?"

She was breathing heavy, staring at him in a mixture of confusion and fear. He was used to being feared, and could tell instinctively the panic in her eyes this time was not of him, but of her own inexplicable actions. She didn't understand it and was terrified of what she had done. The expression in her eyes, her emotions so naked to him, was something he had never witnessed before from her and he was almost sympathetic for the young woman sitting in front of him.

The next several minutes drifted past in near silence save for the isolated crackling of the fire from the living room fireplace. The flow of blood had all but stopped, and Snape eased the fabric slowly back from her nose, his free hand at her jaw tilting her face as he examined her condition. Satisfied, he pushed up to his feet to walk to the sink, shoving the bloodied handkerchief back into his trouser pocket. He pulled a faded blue washcloth off the nearby rung, dampening the soft fabric under the warm stream of water.

"I always knew I was different. From the time I could talk, I knew I wasn't like anyone else in my family, anyone else I knew."

Her voice was nearly inaudible and he turned the faucet off, his back still to her as he wrung the excess water out of the washcloth.

"Before I even knew what magic was, that it even existed, I was thinking strange things, doing…strange things."

He turned around, pausing for a moment at the edge of the sink to look at her. Hermione was sitting up straight in the kitchen chair, her eyes wide but unseeing, the blood drying into a dull crimson stain under her nose and on her upper lip. Her hands had curled into loose fists on the sides of the chair, her body trembling faintly.

He walked slowly over to her, kneeling down in front of her again. Unlike earlier, when her eyes had followed his every move, she was still staring straight ahead, her thoughts far removed from the present, from their current reality.

"In primary school, there was this girl who was just terrible to me. My hair, my teeth…anything wrong with me she could find, she would tease me horribly."

His left hand smoothed back against her cheek, caressing the soft skin before his fingers slid into the hair at the base of her neck. He tilted her head, moving forward as he gently rubbed the warm, wet washcloth against the blood drying on her skin.

"I was eight when it happened," Hermione continued, unfazed by Snape's ministrations. "She had made me cry the day before, and then she had proceeded to tell me that no boy would ever love me, I was so ugly."

His hand stilled in mid-action, his own memories of the ill treatment at the hands of James and Sirius coming back to him. How different he was from the young witch in front of him, and yet so similar.

"She tripped. Her schoolbooks went everywhere, and she fell head over heels, and the whole school saw her knickers. I didn't know how I did it, but I knew I was somehow responsible. _I_ did that to her. She was awful to me, and I used magic to get back at her."

Severus stared up at her for a moment, his own recollections fading as he studied the young woman. How many times had he been called foul names? How many countless children had been afraid of him on reputation alone? He had never starved for attention from the opposite sex; he had long ago come to terms with the fact that he would never be considered a handsome man by any stretch of the imagination, but he was well aware of the power of his voice, and the dark allure he held.

She was different. Her teeth had long since changed to match her face, and her hair, a mass of riotous curls, actually suited her quite nicely. He couldn't imagine the girl with straight hair; it would be no match for her personality, no indication of the fire in her soul.

Her body had matured as well, perhaps not as fast as her intolerable intellect, but she had blossomed into a woman after fifth year. He was suddenly rather viscerally aware of the fact that she now had breasts and hips, still petite, but rather curvy. He swallowed, cursing the gods that he was now conscious that Hermione Granger was no longer the insufferable know-it-all of his Potion classes, but an equal, a woman hunted by Voldemort, an ally of Potter, and now currently hidden under his care.

"Every witch and wizard is able to use wandless magic," Snape spoke softly, cleaning the last traces of blood from her face. She blinked, her brown eyes slowly focusing on him as the world drifted back into reality.

"It differs from wizard to wizard, but each is capable of it on some level," he continued, setting the washcloth on the edge of the table. He held her face steady between his calloused hands, staring at her intently for any residual signs of blood. "There are similar stories to yours for all first years at Hogwarts."

He paused, expecting one of her infamous retorts, a wordy additional clarification to what he had just explained. Instead she remained silent, her gaze fixed on him, her lips parted, but no words escaping her.

"There is a reason each wizard acquires a wand at an early age. It is a magical instrument personalized to each wizard or witch to help him or her focus the magic. Indeed, many scholars would say that it ultimately brings more power to the wizard; without a wand, many would be capable of little more magic than that of a Squib."

She swallowed, and his black eyes followed the movement. She already knew this lecture; she had read through the entire Hogwarts library by the beginning of her third year, and the Restricted Section had never been completely off limits to her brilliant mind and the prevarication she employed on her quest to learn more.

"The wand also serves as a magical barrier between the wizard and his power. With each spell, with each incantation, there is residual magic left, which is pulled into the wand. Many have presumed this is the reason why we are able to identify our own wands so readily, why it is so difficult to use another's wand to perform the same spell we could conjure without incident.

"But this is not without consequence. Any magic performed without the wand as a barrier between the wizard and the spell, the lingering power is pulled into the caster. Most of the time, with the small, daily wandless spells we perform, it is not of a concern. When you executed the basic _Verriegelung_ locking spell on the bathroom door this morning to keep Draco out, it was unnecessary to use a wand."

She made a small sound in the back of her throat. She was shocked that he knew she locked the door magically against the platinum-haired wizard, even more so that he knew the exact, wandless spell she had chosen.

"But that was minor, Miss Granger. The magic remaining from that spell is almost nothing, less than a ghost of a trace. But from your dream…"

"How?"

"There are few that are born with it, that are able to control it. The Dark Lord, for one." He paused, his jaw clenching as he looked away from her. "Albus was another. There have been others that have awoken the talent in response to some traumatic event. It is my personal belief that Potter will find this ability eventually."

"My nosebleed…"

"It is a symptom. You brought too much magic back into your body." He turned back to her, watching as the thoughts crossed her face.

"So give me back my wand."

He snorted, the sound low. "It's not that simple, girl. Your magic woke to this in unconsciousness. Besides, your wand is still traceable by the Ministry of Magic."

She frowned, her mind still racing with all of this information, but annoyance overshadowing all other thoughts. "But Malfoy…"

"His wand was…cleansed. This was accomplished with a dark spell, and it will go without question that I will not repeat it." His lips pulled out in a thin line as he stared at her. There was enduring anger in her eyes, but mostly he sensed frustration and confusion from her. He sighed, moving to push back up to a standing position when she reached out for him, her soft hand sliding against his cheek. The sudden, unexpected movement caught him off guard. Very few touched him willingly.

"What am I to do, then?" she asked, her voice soft, almost pleading. He grabbed her wrist, intending to pull her hand away from him but instead his fingers lingered against her warm flesh.

"It is unwise to touch me," he whispered, his black eyes piercing her. Her breathing was still a bit rushed, but every other outward sign spoke of her determination. Minerva would have been proud of her most fierce lioness, standing fearlessly in front of the dragon. _The girl needed to learn control._

He sighed, his eyes closing as he turned his face towards her forearm, his fingers still tight around her wrist. His breath was warm against her flesh, and she shivered, the sensation flooding through her, pooling in her belly.

"Sir?"

Severus made some sort of low sound in the back of his throat, his nose brushing up against the skin of her wrist, and then his mouth. She gasped, and he murmured appreciatively at her vocal response.

Hermione's breathing was short, and she stared in a mixture of panic and longing as her former professor kissed her wrist, his lips hot against her. It was unreal, and she felt her mind struggling vehemently as her body fell headlong into the desire he was awakening, his simple touch burning her up while her brain questioned everything.

Her eyelids fluttered closed, her head rolling back as his lips parted, his mouth open against her skin. It was unlike anything she had ever felt before, an odd burning, and a need…

"Please," she begged, her voice ragged, her eyes squinted shut. The pressure against her wrist eased, the warmth of his mouth gone. He moved a fraction away from her, watching as she opened her eyes, half-lidded, her breathing shallow. She looked ravished, and it took a degree of control to keep from continuing to seduce her.

"It is all in the mind, Miss Granger. If you have power over your magic, it cannot hurt you." The statement was intended to come out direct, but his voice was still rough with desire. She was still staring at him in open bewilderment, her eyes dark, her lips parted. Severus rocked to his knees, and in one fluid movement, cradled her face between his calloused hands.

"Why?" Her question was soft, her eyes shimmering with confusion.

His black gaze shifted down to her mouth and then back to the pleading look in her brown eyes. "There is nothing more that I can teach you that you do not already know, or that you must find out for yourself. Know this; for all I had to scorn you, mock you for the sake of our world and the ties that bind us in wizarding society, I never once doubted your intelligence. You are the brightest witch of your age. Use it."

Snape pushed to his feet and rotated on his heel, stalking without a backwards glance to the counter. She continued to stare at him even as the rhythmic chopping resumed, her former professor once again focused on the task of making their evening meal.

Hermione had lost track of how many minutes had passed, silently watching Severus prepare supper, when Malfoy appeared in entryway to the kitchen. The platinum-haired wizard had exchanged his long sleeved shirt and jeans for a black button-down dress shirt and black slacks, his hair which had previously been almost disheveled now slicked back in the style she was familiar with from their time together at Hogwarts. In his right hand he held a bottle of red wine.

"Hope I'm not late," he smirked, bustling into the kitchen with an enthusiastic stride. Snape glanced up from sliding the chicken and chopped rosemary into the frying pan; the boy had dressed up for dinner.

When Severus brought Malfoy to the safe house nearly six months prior, the boy had held up appearances for the first two weeks. So similar to his father, he had kept his clothes in perfect condition, his hair slicked back, his nails manicured. Appearance was everything with the Malfoys, and in hiding or not, Draco was held to that doctrine.

And then he slowly came to realize it didn't matter. Without the threat of keeping appearances for the purebloods and Voldemort, or for the sake of his father, the boy became comfortable with himself. He began to eat meals with Snape without spending a large quantity of time on his exterior self. He revealed to his godfather his artistic abilities, his love of reading. He was able to actually live, to exist without fear of rejection, without fear of death.

Snape wondered briefly at the boy's turnabout attempt to dress up for dinner. Hermione was a Muggle-born, so he really would feel no need to pretend in front of her. It occurred to him the possibility the boy was enamored with the witch, but the thought was fleeting. If anything, Draco was excited to have someone other than Severus to share a meal and conversation with after so many long months.

"I thought we could have wine with dinner. I was getting a little tired of the mead," Malfoy said with a short laugh, setting the wine bottle on the table top next to her. His smile faltered slightly as his blue-gray eyes shifted between Snape and Hermione.

"Are you all right, Granger?"

Her gaze shifted from Snape's back up to Malfoy. He was staring at her with a concerned expression, and she felt her world tilt once again. She nodded, her reply lost when her former professor spoke, his silky voice low as he requested Malfoy's assistance with boiling the string beans.

It was getting harder for her to keep her hold on reality.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** I love them all – they keep me typing away at this fic. BTW – for those of you who are wondering, I will be reposting shortly stuff that was not proofed. I have limited online access as of late, so it's slow going!

**A/N:** The poem used in this chapter is Shakespeare's Sixtieth Sonnet. It is a beautiful piece and quite fitting for the last part of this scene. The majority of the magic text I quote in this chapter comes from "Le musee des sorciers, mages et alchemists" by Grillot de Givry. Oh, and the drinking age in England (and the HP universe) is lower than that of the US – please don't think I'm promoting underage drinking. I may be a deviant, but not of that sort.

**Chapter Seven**

The evening meal had been an awkward affair. With Draco's assistance, it had taken him twenty minutes to finish cooking the food and setting the table. It was a simple dish of chicken, rosemary and vegetables served over rice, something basic but comfortably filling on a cold Scottish evening. All three of them were hungry, and though she said nothing, her brown eyes followed his movements as he prepared her a plate.

The boy had been almost chatty, shifting the conversation through a host of topics from curse-breakers to modern-day Muggle appliances. The girl responded with polite but short replies as she worked hastily to finish her meal. Severus sat across from her, watching their exchange in silence while sipping his wine.

He was still thinking of their earlier encounter, still trying to come to terms with what exactly had happened with her and between them. From the way she had been intently avoiding all eye contact with him, he knew her thoughts were in the same realm.

It made no sense to him. He was a cold heartless bastard without feeling, without pleasures beyond that of his potions and brews; indeed, it was his lack of sentiment towards others that had probably kept him alive as a spy all of these years. He had no friends; Albus had been more of a master, and Draco was his ward, his godson, but not his friend. Severus had experience with women, but all of his past encounters were served to quench desire, not to entertain anything that remotely resembled affection or worse, love, the emotion reserved for fools and poets.

He had to admit she was bright, infuriatingly so at times. Though he had never dared to admit it in all of her years as his student, she had never ceased to amaze him with the amount of knowledge she possessed. The fact that she could excel at anything he threw her way at the same time helping that dunderhead Longbottom not blow up his classroom was a testament in itself. He had found that her essays were a joy to read; it bothered him at first that he couldn't scrawl across hers with corrections, but then he moved past that to a point where he actually yearned to assign her an extra foot of parchment just so he could read her take on different aspects of potions.

But she was Potter's best friend. She had stolen from him before, betrayed him to further whatever agenda the Boy-Who-Lived asked of her. She was Muggle-born, and while she possessed an astounding intellect, her heritage placed her in more danger than those witches whom at least had one pure-blood parent. And she was still a child…

He took another drink from the wine goblet, his revelations from earlier coming back to him. No, she was no longer the bushy-hair chit waving her arm wildly in the air, nearly bursting out of her seat with all of the answers. He hadn't thought of her that way since that night two years ago at Grimmauld Place, and after today could not deny that his unwilling guest was no longer a child, but a woman.

His black gaze was thoughtful as he stared across the table at her, watching her as she moved the rice around her plate, mumbling some short reply in response to Draco's assertion that blenders could be a benefit to wizarding society. She was staring down at her food, her voice low, the tone distracted. Whether he did not notice, or was too excited about the conversation to care, Draco continued on without inquiring about her lackluster response.

Severus still didn't know what possessed him to kiss her. Perhaps it was the faint shock of having another willingly touch him; it had been so long, and the softness of her hand against his cheek had nearly made him groan aloud with the simple pleasure. Her eyes had been dark, her frustration evident, but beneath that had been valiant determination. There was fire in her, a fierce strength that stirred a part of him he had long since thought dead.

It was the desire to seize that feeling, to possess her, that had him holding her wrist firmly as he pressed his mouth against the warm skin of her forearm. She still smelled faintly of the rose soap, but underneath that was a scent that was all her. She had gasped and the shocked sound pushed him further, his mouth opening to taste her flesh. Severus had moved past intellectual discourse, lost in the feeling. If not for her plea, the begging tone he had never heard from her before, he didn't know how far he would have taken it. As it was, the mixture of fear and desire in her voice caused reality to once again embrace him.

He was positive she was innocent. Unlike the majority of her classmates, she preferred the company of books than that of the opposite sex. He remembered her brief courtship with the Bulgarian brute from Durmstrang, and her hesitant affections with the Weasley boy, but he doubted either had placed higher in her heart than that of her love of knowledge. She was too concerned about learning more and her role in helping Harry bloody Potter save the world.

Severus scowled at the thought. It always came back to Potter. If not for him and the Dark Lord, the young woman across the table wouldn't have had to grow up so fast, and he wouldn't have sacrificed nearly two decades of his life as a spy. As it was, he was holed up in a dilapidated farmhouse in the bitter cold of Scotland with Lucius' son and a Muggle-born witch who hated him. If only the old man hadn't asked it of him, if only there had been another way…

_But there wasn't, my boy. I trusted you to do what was right, as I trust you now._ Severus' lean fingers tightened around the glass stem of the goblet as Albus' fatherly voice came to him. Even now, in death, the old man was still with him. Whatever conscience he still had, it now scolded him in the voice of Dumbledore. It was a fitting punishment, one that Severus had wondered on more than one occasion if the former headmaster had thought of himself.

He sighed exhaustedly, and Hermione's eyes caught his, her fork clattering against her plate. Her lips were parted, and the look on her face shifted from surprise to ill concealed panic. Malfoy stopped in mid-sentence, his cold gray-blue eyes moving between the other two occupants at the kitchen table.

"Dinner was," she stopped, moistening her lower lip hesitantly. She wiped her hands hurriedly on the cloth napkin on her lap before placing it to the right of her plate. "It was nice. Thank you for feeding me, sir."

He arched one black eyebrow and she pushed back in her chair, the wood screeching against the worn tiles. Hermione stood, unconsciously smoothing down the front of her velvet gown. Severus was silently staring, his obsidian gaze unblinking on her.

"It would have been worthless to save your life only to have you starve, Miss Granger," he spoke softly, his voice like black silk. Severus took another sip of the wine while ignoring the odd look Draco was giving him. His attention was on the young woman standing across from him, her breathing somewhat irregular as she stared back at him.

"Of course. If you'll excuse me," she whispered. Without waiting for a response from either of the men, she turned and walked hurriedly out of the kitchen.

Severus heard her in the living room, hastily pulling out a few books to undoubtedly read for the night. Then she banged up the stairs, her stealth from earlier ignored in her haste to get as far away from them as she could still confined within the walls of the farmhouse.

"How long?"

Severus turned to Draco. The platinum-haired wizard was absently twirling his glass, the wine swirling around in response to the fluid movement of his wrist. His pale lips were compressed thin and Severus regarded him for a long moment before answering.

"For however long it takes. You should know more than most that there are no set perimeters to war," Severus replied. He stood, pausing for a moment to stretch his back before picking up his plate. He stacked it with Hermione's before making his way to the sink.

"Does Lupin know?"

Severus' hand stilled on the faucet, his eyes open but unseeing on the patterned tile back-splash behind the metal basin. He knew since they had captured her that Draco would want to know all of the details, and who else was aware of them. Since that night nearly half a year earlier in the astronomy tower, his life depended on it.

"Not yet. The situation is…extremely fragile. Tomorrow I may see him if conditions allow for it."

Severus set the plates to the left of the sink and turned back around. Draco had since set the wine glass down on the tabletop, his fingers still curled loosely around the stem as he stared blankly at the red liquid.

"She could change everything," the boy whispered.

"That she could."

Draco glanced up from the wine glass to look intently across the kitchen at his godfather. "She already knows too much. It's dangerous."

Severus pushed away from the sink and walked back over to the kitchen table, sitting down in the chair previously occupied by Hermione. He observed the younger wizard silently, still amazed that as the years passed the boy had become a near visual replica of his father. It was disconcerting at times; the boy looked so much like Lucius. But he wasn't consumed by hate. He had a chance. Narcissa knew this. Albus knew this. So now Draco's future was in his hands, intrinsically tied with Severus' next move.

"Do you trust me, Draco?"

He blinked, focusing back on Severus, somewhat startled by the question. "Of course. You saved me, Severus. If not for you…"

"Then don't lose hope. Everything I do has a purpose." Severus leaned forward slightly in the chair. "I want you to treat the girl as a guest, do you understand? She is here with us now for a reason."

"I don't hate her, not really," Draco replied quietly. "I understand better, I don't feel the way I once did about…you know, about Muggles. And for everything that I ever did or said to her, she doesn't hate me. I was expecting her to want me dead."

He stared at the younger wizard, his vision blurring slightly as he imagined the familiar pressure of Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder. Severus was unused to being touched, but Albus was one of very few people he was able to stand limited contact with. It had been the old man's dream, his wish for their kind. How many times had he said that to him, and Minerva repeated it verbatim to the staff?

_The future of our people depends on the children, Severus. No pure-blood is born hating Muggles and Muggle-borns. Hatred is taught to them, bred into their minds well before the time they pass the gates of Hogwarts as first years. Hatred is what brought Riddle into power, hatred is what killed Harry's parents, and hatred is what will bring our children to destroy each other. Knowledge and love can change this. If we cultivate it, it will grow in the children. They will know a future without war, without hate._

"Maybe she could go with me." Draco's voice was so soft it took a moment for Severus, still lost with the voice of Albus in his head, to comprehend what the boy had just said. One black eyebrow arched as he stared at him.

"She knows their world. She could help me fit in. Perhaps…" Draco stopped, laughing shortly. "I know, it's silly. But maybe she could come to like me. We could be flat mates, go to the same university. Be together, at least until the war ends."

Severus sighed, suddenly feeling every minute of his near forty years. He pushed back up to his feet, starting to move towards the entrance of the kitchen but pausing next to the younger wizard who was still sitting at the table, his gray-blue gaze on the wine glass.

"The war may last for decades," he said quietly. He left the rest unspoken; both knew that it was possible Draco would never be able to return to the wizarding world. As for the girl, he was troubled by the younger wizard's admission, but did not feel like questioning him at the moment. Draco was in a dark place right now, and for lack of other options had latched onto the girl. It was fairly disquieting, and Severus knew he would have to address the issue at a later date.

"It's late, Draco. No more heavy thoughts. Gather up your dishes and then get to bed."

Severus had left Draco alone in the kitchen immersed in contemplation. It had been almost thirty minutes later that he heard the stairs creak under weight as the boy made his way up to the second floor, walking past Severus' closed door to his own bedroom. He was faintly surprised that the younger wizard hadn't checked in on Hermione, though he was certain she would have ignored him anyway. The young woman had locked herself in the bathroom, probably curled up in the bathtub reading the books by the moonlight from the lone window.

Many hours had passed and Severus still hadn't found sleep. He was propped up in a sitting position against several pillows at the head of the rusted, wrought iron bed. Earlier he had changed into black silk pajama bottoms, his chest and feet bare but comfortably warmed by the fire crackling in the small, ancient fireplace in the corner of the decent sized room. To his left on the coverlet were several old, leather-bound books; in his lap was the same book the girl had tried to translate from earlier, _Advances in Wandless Magic Throughout the 19th Century_. But he did not have the same problem as the witch; the book was charmed to recognize its owner, the text shifting when his eyes made contact with the parchment, translating effortlessly to English.

Severus slid his fingertips down the leather of the front cover, feeling the enchantment of the text before opening it to the first chapter, the English swirling on the page, illuminated by the lone gas lamp on his bed stand.

_Rhabdomancy, or the Art of Using the Diving-Rod._ It was inherent within each magical person, witch or wizard. A wizard would find the appropriate magical instrument to give his magic guidance, focus and power. It was stated in antiquity, that of the time of Merlin. The Prophet Hosea had even mentioned it, _Populus meus in ligno suo interrogavit et baculus ejus annuntiavit ei_.

Rhabdomancy was an antique term for wand magic. Severus was familiar with it due to his endless research and studies, but it wasn't something taught at Hogwarts. Then again, neither was wandless magic.

_For each sorcerer has the ability to execute a spell without the assistance of a wand. This is basic and unquestionable. But there are those who possess a heightened power, an instinctive grasp of magic. With control, this type of sorcerer can manipulate magic without the aid of anything beyond his own being._

Severus skipped the next few paragraphs after the introduction, his index finger pausing at the bottom of the parchment.

_Regrettably, there are several who are sanctified with this innate magic that cannot find power over it. Other than the destruction he may bring to his fellow sorcerers, this wizard may find himself in the companionship of harm or death, having pulled the magic he proposed to use back into his own being. There have been a dozen documented cases of such fatalities over the past three centuries, a comprehensive inventory which is sited in_ Le Dragon gouge, ou l'art de commander les spirits celestes, aeriens, terrestres, infernaux _by Offray (pub. 1522)._

He sighed, leaning back heavily into the pillows as his eyes closed. He rubbed his eyelids with his free hand, trying to concentrate. This book dealt mostly with wandless magic for those who usually performed magic with a wand, simple spells a wizard with a sixth year education could accomplish without much trouble. But it made several interesting conclusions and referenced books outside of what he had been able to salvage from the fire at Spinner's End, that which he would now make a point of acquiring.

When he had rescued, or as she probably saw it, kidnapped the girl, he hadn't imagined this would be one of his concerns. The possibilities were staggering, but the danger she could bring to herself, and to him and the boy could not be ignored. It was all about control, and her ability to understand something that wasn't outlined point for point in a book.

On an intellectual level, her uncovered ability was utterly astounding to him, but in their current situation it was simply terrifying. She could kill them all before the Dark Lord had his chance.

Her scream echoed through the walls of the farmhouse, the sharp, piercing sound causing his body to jerk upwards in surprise, the heavy book sliding from his lap to rest haphazardly on top of the others to his left. Without forethought, he pushed off the thin coverlet and swung his legs over the edge of the old, low-lying bed. He stood hastily, only pausing to grab his wand where it lay next to the gas lamp on his bedside table before walking over to his closed door.

Severus whispered the unwarding charms to cautiously open the door, instinctively gauging all other smells, sights and sounds before stepping out into the dark hallway.

"Severus?"

He glanced to his left. Draco stood in front of the door to his bedroom dressed in his green thermal pajamas, his platinum hair mused and his eyes heavy with sleep. Careful of the wand in his hand, he covered his mouth on a yawn as his gaze shifted between the older wizard and the door-less entry to Hermione's room.

"Go back into your room and ward the door," Severus hissed, his voice low. "Stay there until I let you know it's safe."

Draco's eyes widened a fraction, but he said nothing, turning abruptly to go back into his bedroom, closing the door silently behind him. Satisfied the boy was secure, his grip tightened on his wand as he made his way furtively to the entryway of the girl's room.

He heard her before he saw her, her breathing heavy and the slats of the bed frame creaking as she tossed about on the mattress. Cautiously he slid up against the entryway, her small, moonlit room coming into view.

His black gaze flittered across the entirety of the dark room before settling on her. She was no longer wearing the velvet gown but had replaced it with some sort of knee length, cream-colored slip. The fabric was damp in places; he noticed sweat on her face, locks of her unruly hair pressed against her forehead and neck. She had since tossed the coverlet from her body; upon closer inspection he noticed the muscles of her exposed arms and legs were strained, her hands pulled into tight fists. She was in the midst of another nightmare.

Severus stood silently in the entryway, weighing the options. The afternoon's debacle was still fresh in his mind; if the girl could cause stacks of his books to explode into the air, he abhorred to experience the damage she could do to him. Above all else, he couldn't scare her. That had seemed to trigger it.

Mentally admonishing his lack of foresight to administer to her the Dreamless Sleep Draught, he walked quietly into the room, his black gaze steady on her restless form. She gasped, the sound strangled, and he stood still, his heartbeat rapid as he stared at her, waiting for her to wake. But the nightmare raged on.

He paused at the edge of the small bed, the faint smell of mothballs tickling his senses. He realized with a start that she had been through the weathered chifferobe to find a replacement for the gown he had Transfigured for her. Whether it was due to the fact that the gown was slightly soiled from the grime of the window she had cleaned on her shirtsleeve earlier, or that Severus had been the one to create the dress for her, he didn't know, and at this moment, didn't really care.

Cautiously, he sat down on the edge of the bed, his gaze still focused sharply on her. The moonlight streaming through the single window caressed her features, the lush sheen to her face and brevity of her slip reminding him once again that it was a woman that laid before him, not a girl. If he had the decency Dumbledore had been convinced he possessed, he would leave the room without turning back.

Then again, there was a possibility the chit could burn the house down around them.

He frowned, setting his wand silently on the bedside table. Hesitantly, he reached for her, his calloused hand pausing a fraction from the damp flesh of her right cheek. Steeling his nerves, he smoothed his palm against her, his fingers trailing across her temple and sliding into her hair. She cried out, the sound stifled, her eyes still squeezed shut.

"Shhh. It's all right," he whispered soothingly. Hermione shuddered, her breathing still rushed. His fingertips massaged gently through her thick hair to her scalp. "I won't let them hurt you, love."

She gasped, her eyes suddenly open but unfocused. She bolted upright, her arms around him as she pressed herself tightly against his bare chest before he could pull away. She was sobbing, her face wet against his neck. With uncertainty, he embraced her, one hand still in her hair, his other arm around her waist as she wept against him.

"Merlin, it was horrible!" She was trembling, and he instinctively shifted his hold, turning slightly on the bed to cradle her against him. "I thought…I thought I was dying. And Malfoy…and Snape…gods, Snape…"

Her voice faded, and he felt her tense against him before the sudden cessation of her tears. Her breathing, which had been heavy as her body fought for air as she cried, had now become quite shallow.

It had been the dream again. She had been back in Hogsmeade with Lavender at her feet, the injured girl holding her tightly around the calves. The Death Eater, Lavender dead, and the slicing hex. And Snape and Malfoy. But it hadn't ended there. The books had exploded, and parchment was falling around her in a steady stream. Malfoy was laughing somewhere in the distance and Snape was on his knees in front of her, kissing her wrist. When he had looked up at her, his mouth was red with her blood, and he was whispering, but his voice was that of Dumbledore's. _Learn from history._

Hermione was stiff, her eyes squeezed shut as reality stabbed painfully into her gut. It was Snape. She could smell him, the mixture of cloves and sage. She felt warm, rough flesh under her palm and realized with a start she was touching his battle-scarred chest. He was holding her much too close, in a bed no less. _He had called her love._

She was terrified, her emotions seemingly stripped raw as her body trembled helplessly within the confines of his embrace. Everything within her was screaming at her to move, to push him away, and to run…but she couldn't.

"Miss Granger."

The young woman in his arms didn't stir, her breathing still labored. He waited for a moment and then moved his hand that was buried in her hair, his fingers sliding around to her jaw. She made a small startled noise, the sound smothered against his neck.

"You were having a nightmare. It wasn't my intent to frighten you, but I would rather avoid a repeat of last time," he spoke dryly. When she didn't move, he shifted against her, attempting to give her space in his arms when she moaned, a tremor rippling through her.

She didn't understand. She hated him. Severus Snape was a turncoat; he had killed a man that had been like a father to her. But everything had gone horribly wrong. She was supposed to be the rational one, but her emotions were spiraling out of control. It was if part of her that had lain dormant for nearly two decades was awakening into some sort of blissful awareness, her senses racing in a headlong, pleasurable response to a man she was convinced she despised more than anyone else.

He stared over her head into the moonlit room, his arm still tight at her waist. Severus had thought she was terrified, but the sound she had made, the way her body trembled against his, was oddly similar to that of desire. Not trusting himself to speak, he pressed gently up on her jaw, tilting her face upwards so he could look at her.

In the half-light he could see the tears in her wide eyes, her lips still parted on her shallow breathing. Her hand pressed hesitantly against his chest as she bit her lower lip, trying to stem the tears.

"Please let me go," she begged, the plea nearly inaudible. He black gaze shifted over her features, sympathy bleeding into a heart he had long since thought had gone cold. Unfortunately for them all, it wasn't that simple.

"I can't," he whispered. Her eyelids closed and she stifled a sob. She tried to push away then, but he didn't relinquish his hold at her waist.

"Why?" Her eyes were open again, and the tears were falling freely down her face. "If you don't wish to kill me or give me to your master, then what use am I? I'm nothing but a Muggle-born girl…"

"I no more believe that than you do, child," he cut her off, his voice hard. She blinked, her tears forgotten for the moment as she stared up at him.

"Then why?"

He grunted. "Not everything is so simple. Life is not black and white, light and dark. For the most part, we live between the two parallels." His fingertips were tracing her cheek lightly as he stared down at her face. How could he explain it to her? She had been his best pupil, but this was a lesson he couldn't teach.

She closed her eyes on an exhausted sigh, nuzzling gently into his palm. He stiffened at her unexpected response.

"You should go back to sleep," he spoke softly. "If you like, I can bring you a vial of Dreamless Sleep."

Her eyes flickered back open, and she bit her lip, contemplating his offer. She shook her head then, and he moved his hand away from her face. He slid his arm somewhat reluctantly back from her waist, shifting on the mattress so she could lie back down. Severus retrieved the crumpled blanket and straightened it across her petite form.

"Sir?"

He glanced at her again from his spot at the edge of the bed. She was fiddling with the edge of the coverlet, but her dark eyes were intent on him.

"Would you…I mean…"

"I'm afraid I don't know any bedtime stories, Miss Granger," he drawled, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. In the moonlight, he could see the small smile she tried to hide.

"Of course not. But Draco mentioned this lullaby…"

Severus snorted, shaking his head. He laughed then, and her stomach fluttered at the sound. She couldn't remember ever hearing her former professor laugh, a true sound of humor and not something laced with malice.

"The boy talks too much," he said, smiling down at her in the half-light. He regarded her silently for a few moments, studying her soft features.

"Perhaps something a touch more…cerebral?" he mused. She nodded wordlessly, watching as he closed his eyes. When he looked at her again, there was something distant about him, and he was frowning thoughtfully.

"Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, so do our minutes hasten to their end; each changing place with that which goes before, in sequent toil all forwards do contend." He paused, his black gaze tracing her face, memorizing the lines of her youth that were expressed so poetically in the couplet.

"Nativity, once in the main of light, crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, crooked ellipses 'gainst his glory fight, and time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth and delves the parallels in beauty's brow, feeds on the rarities of natures truth, and nothing stands but for his scythe to mow; and yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand."

He recited the sonnet to her in his low, silky voice, and she barely breathed as he spoke, her heart beating with the rhythm of the poem.

"You know Shakespeare, sir?"

"A man who wrote not in black and white, but with life," Severus replied. He sighed then, the sound betraying his fatigue. "We only grow by attempting to learn things we do not understand. It is why, ultimately, the Dark will never win."

She watched as he pushed up to a standing position, pausing for a moment to regard her before he picked up his wand and started to walk towards the door.

"Severus?"

His name on her lips stilled him, and he felt something stir in response to it, something he had thought lost, something he wondered secretly had ever actually existed within him in the first place. _There is always hope, my boy. If not for hope, there would be no love. Without love, there would be no Light._

"Thank you," she whispered.

It was so simple, yet meant everything. He remembered his words to Draco, to not lose hope. He remembered his mother, her voice clear, gentle, telling him to not give up. And then Albus, repeating once again,_ those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it._

_Learn from history._

He nodded shortly, not daring to look back at her one more time before he walked out of her bedroom.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** I love each and every one of them – it keeps me at this fic.

**A/N:** My apologies for the delay. This chapter's a long one (I just couldn't stop my muse)!

**Chapter Eight**

The light bled into the blackness with a slow burn, smoldering the remnants of her dream into ash. The cold usually would have bothered her, but the exposed flesh of her arms and legs was blissfully numb; it was a twist of fate that had her yearning for the same affect to her heart. The temperature could not deaden the pain she felt in her chest, the ache that came to her even as her eyelids were still closed in that fleeting moment between sleep and consciousness.

Everything had been clear-cut; this was war and there hadn't been another time she could remember the distinction between good and evil having been so unambiguous. Definitely painful at times, especially for her best friend Harry, but she at least had the knowledge of who the enemy was, and her own position within the Order to assist defeating the ultimate evil.

It had been childish and foolhardy to think life was so simple. How many times in the past had she been so confident of something or someone being a certain way only to have her conjectures shattered? There were those that she wouldn't think of trusting that had become her most treasured allies, and others that she had blindly given her reliance to that had abused it for the sake of power.

Things had been so clear only two days ago. Draco Malfoy was her childhood enemy turned Death Eater, someone she scorned if she bothered to think of him at all anymore. Professor Snape was exceedingly worse; unlike Ron and Harry and pretty much the rest of Gryffindor, she had actually respected his intelligence and his work for the Order, and she had tried for years to earn acknowledgement from him for her aptitude in and out of the classroom. She had trusted him and he had turned on them in the worst possible way.

What had once been so easy to understand, so easy to classify and compartmentalize in her ever expanding knowledge of wartime had now been spun off-kilter. It was as if reality had been shattered and she was the Muggle Alice in Wonderland trying to keep up with the rabbit all the while struggling to understand the new world she had literally fallen into.

Hermione slowly opened her eyes, the peeling, pink rose wallpaper and worn wooden furniture coming into focus. Unlike yesterday, the lone window was closed, and the only sounds were that of her soft breathing and the steady, low grumble of the ancient radiator at the far edge of the room. While it heated the room sufficiently, at some point during the night she had kicked off the bedspread and now her legs and arms were once again bare.

She sat up, reaching for the blanket, when it came back to her. _Snape._ He had covered her with the blanket at some point. _He had been in her room, on her bed…_

Hermione clutched the sheet tightly to her chest, her heart suddenly thudding rapidly against her ribcage. It had been another nightmare, and she had woken in his arms, pressed tightly against his naked chest. She had felt him, the warmth of his skin radiating through the knee-length slip she had changed into after discarding the velvet gown. He had been too close; one lean arm at her waist held her securely against him, his other hand had been at the back of her head, his fingertips sliding through her hair to caress her scalp.

As expected, there was the instantaneous panic, something similar, she supposed, to that of a fly caught suddenly and quite unexpectedly in the spider's web. She felt small and exposed, trapped helplessly in the deadly embrace of the pale Death Eater. His hand only had to shift a fraction for his fingers to be at her neck; she imagined it wouldn't take much effort for him to strangle her.

But there had been something else, something unwanted and particularly disconcerting. It had been a rush of sensation, a shuddery feeling when he had shifted against her. His chest had brushed the satin fabric of the slip against the sensitive skin of her breasts, and she felt the silvery response between her thighs. She couldn't stop her vocal reaction to the pleasure. Her traitorous body _wanted_ him.

Her mind was already racing to come up with a practical reason for it. Had so many years of his rejection of her intellectual accomplishments caused her body to react to the embrace? Unlikely, but she didn't entirely discount it. Perhaps it was just teenage hormones, but then she imagined if that were the case she would have shared with Ron more than a few kisses this past year.

She huffed, mentally shoving the questions to the back of her mind. She didn't have time for this. There were more important things to think about. How to get out of here, for one thing, or let the others know she was safe, as safe as she could be holed up in a house in a particularly uninhabited part of the Scottish countryside with Snape and Malfoy.

But it wasn't so simple. She knew neither of her captors was an ally, but then neither of them she would outright judge as evil. Snape had saved her life; he had provided her with food, water, and access to books. While he had been firm last night that he was not releasing her, he hadn't chained her down, or cursed her or given her a potion so he could control her in any degree.

Which brought her back to the original question. Why? If she wasn't a gift for Voldemort, for the evil wizard to use to hurt Harry, then what purpose did she serve? Hermione remembered clearly Snape's dialogue about wandless magic yesterday in the kitchen; obviously someone with the ability would be valuable in war, and if she was one such witch, then that could be the reason for her abduction. But she had just seemingly awoken this talent yesterday. As far as she knew, only her and her former professor were aware of it.

Hermione bit her lower lip, her vision blurring slightly as her thoughts strained to encompass the magnitude of what she had done. She had performed magic without a wand. And not a simple _Accio_ or a locking spell. Somehow, the magic had built inside her body and spilt out without the focus of a wand, causing _books_ of all things to explode into the air.

She knew embarrassingly little about the subject of true wandless magic. Like any other Hogwarts-educated witch, she knew a few charms and spells without the use of a wand, just basic stuff. Hogwarts didn't teach a class on wandless magic, and there was almost nothing devoted to the applications and accompanying theories in the library.

Snape had told her it was dangerous. The nosebleed itself had been startling; she hadn't suffered through one in years, and in those cases some sort of physical trauma always had caused it. To have her body shed blood in response to her emotions, reacting to some sort of uncovered magical ability was rather frightening.

Hermione didn't even understand it. How was she supposed to control it, or better yet, use it?

She glanced over to the door-less entry to her room. Hermione paused for several more moments while listening intently to make sure the hallway beyond her room was vacant. Satisfied, she slid quietly off of the mattress, grimacing slightly when her bare feet made contact with the cold wooden floor. Turning back to the bed, she pulled up the sheet around her body to cover her knee-length slip, knotting the fabric securely above her breasts in an improvised toga. Holding up the excess so the hem brushed her ankles instead of the floor, she walked over to the chifferobe.

Hermione quietly opened the doors to the ancient wardrobe and once again surveyed the vintage ensemble of dresses dangling from their wire hangers. Unlike a magical closet, nothing had changed since yesterday; all of the clothes were still rather ugly, and all dated at least back to the 1950's, if not earlier.

After a cursory glance, she pulled out a long green dress, holding it at arms length for a moment to study the item. It was quite hideous, but the hem would at least brush her calves and the sleeves would cover her shoulders. There was still the unanswered resolution to the unfortunate demise of her brassiere and knickers. Hermione had tried to wash both articles of clothing last night in the bathroom sink with limited success.

If Snape was determined to keep her here for an unspecified amount of time, she was going to demand him to bring her some underwear. She would probably blush scarlet the entire time she requested it of him, but damn if she was going to spend any more time around her former professor and the platinum-haired boy wizard with no knickers. Unarmed as she was, it only seemed to add to her feeling of insecurity.

The thought that he would suggest Malfoy _help_ her Transfigure some under-things had her scowling again. If Malfoy came close to her with even the _look_ of intent, she was liable to punch him again.

Of course, she could always try and Transfigure them herself.

She blinked, staring at the dress. Ignoring the sudden urgent voice in head protesting her possible foolishness, she pushed the left door open wider and hooked the wire hanger over the top of it. She stepped back a fraction and gazed at the faded, green patterned dress, her mind racing.

What if it was possible? What if she could perform magic without a wand? _Merlin, the possibilities would be endless._

She swallowed, her breathing somewhat shallow as she continued to look at the dress. But how did it work? Could she just say the spell and it would happen? Was it really that easy? Did she really awaken that kind of power within herself? All this time, all her studying, all of the books and classes and time and it came down to just _her_. It was something within her being and she had no idea at all on what to do with it.

Hermione moistened her lower lip. Perhaps it would just be as simple as when she performed the spell with her wand. Looking at the dress, she imagined a pair of jeans. A soft, comfy, worn but well-constructed pair of jeans. Right now, that would be bliss.

She murmured the spell quietly, watching expectantly. Nothing. Frowning, she looked away from the dress and down to her hands. Perhaps the magic had to have some sort of passage, a way to move out of her body. Hadn't she seen Dumbledore move his hands with wandless magic?

She held up her right hand to the dress, repeating the spell. Still nothing. She bit her lip, frowning. How did one do this sort of thing? How had she managed to accomplish it in the first place?

It had been her fear. Her anger. She had relived watching that Death Eater kill Lavender, watched as the life blinked out of her eyes in one cold snap of the wand. Hermione had been bleeding, and she knew, she knew she was dying. Snape had appeared and that fear bled into anger.

Dark Magic? Had that led to her current magical standing? Did her emotions open this hidden talent?

Her fingers curled, tense for a moment before her hand relaxed, her arm still outstretched towards the chifferobe. She stared at the dress, curbing the onslaught of her thoughts as she focused on the simple spell.

Emotion was the trigger. It had to be.

"Now," she whispered, her voice strained as the pain of her recent memories blurred her vision. The dress fluttered in front of her, the green fabric undulating against the wooden door of the wardrobe. Her breath caught, her eyes widening at the visual.

Her heart suddenly racing, she drew her hand slowly down, watching as the green of the dress distorted, a blue light melding into the fabric. It was happening; she was creating magic without a wand, Transfiguring something without…

The light disappeared, the dress fluttering back against the door. She scowled, staring at the offending piece of green clothing. What happened? What had she done wrong to stop the spell?

In a move reminiscent of her childhood, she stomped her foot, her hands drawing up into fists at her hips. Without warning, the doors of the chifferobe swung shut with a bang, the dress tumbling in a rush of green fabric to her feet, the wire hanger bent at an odd angle against the floor.

She could almost taste the rush of fear and excitement in the back of her throat, her breathing shallow. _Merlin's beard!_

Hermione glanced at the doorway again, expecting Snape or Malfoy to appear. After a few moments had passed and no one came, she turned back to the chifferobe, her gaze shifting from the closed doors and down to the dress.

Hadn't he said it was dangerous? But could she really just ignore it? Especially now, trapped as she was without her wand? But there were no books on the subject and no one to teach her.

She bit her lip, staring at the empty doorway of her bedroom again. Snape. He didn't possess this…this _talent_ she had somehow awoken, but he seemed to understand it. Perhaps he could help her to develop it, to control it.

All other thoughts were lost as she strode determinedly towards the doorway, gripping handfuls of the sheet around her as she walked quietly out of the room. He had put her in this position, and he may even have helped in causing her mind to encompass such magic. Therefore, in a way, he was responsible.

Hermione paused in the darkened hallway, her eyes adjusting to the half-light as she listened. No music; Malfoy certainly was still asleep. All of the doors in the hallway were closed; she felt a sudden irritation that she had been given the only room lacking sufficient privacy. Though in the rational part of her brain it made complete sense that as Snape's captive he wouldn't give her a means to hide from him other than that of the loo, she irritatingly added it to the growing list of grievances she had to address with the potions master.

At the top of the stairs she stopped again, the smell of buttered toast and Earl Grey tea whetting her appetite. She heard the crackle of fire and the faint rustle of paper. Maybe her assumption that Malfoy was still asleep was incorrect. More than likely though, Snape was the one downstairs. She had wondered more than once over the years if the wizard actually slept. She had never been so close to him to actually find out.

Last night came back to her again. He had been too close. He was _getting_ too close. Fear she could conquer and hate she could use to keep herself going through this. But he caused emotions to swell in her she didn't understand, feelings that had her teetering precariously on the edge of reason.

Steeling her nerves, she slowly descended into the living room, not bothering with her mental map of the creaks in the stairs. Her former professor was a professional at this game; to pretend otherwise would do a disservice to them both.

When she came into the living room, she leaned back against the wall to the right of the stairs, her gaze darting from the worn blue couches, pausing briefly on the half-played chess game, before resting on the armchair in the shadowy corner of the room. A small side stand she hadn't noticed yesterday was to the left of the overstuffed chair, a gas lamp and dainty, chipped porcelain cup and saucer occupying the tabletop. Severus was sitting in the chair, his attention on the newspaper unfolded in his lap.

He was wearing black silk pajamas, the fabric creased slightly were his ankles were crossed, his pose rather languid in the armchair. The sleeves of his top were rolled up to mid-forearm and she caught flashes of the Dark Mark as he turned the pages of the newspaper. Several buttons were undone on his shirt, exposing a fraction of his pale, scarred chest. Unlike yesterday evening, his hair was no longer tied back, several long black strands hanging down in front of his face as he read. His hair was shiny in the flickering light from the lamp, and for the first time she wondered if it wasn't greasy but just glossy. It would make sense with the care he took with his clothes and appearance that his hair would receive the same hygienic treatment.

Last night, pressed so intimately against him, she could smell him. Cloves, and sage, and the faint presence of a mixture of potions ingredients, nothing distasteful, which disproved all of those silly rumors about the Greasy Git of the dungeons. He had smelled quite clean and masculine, a fact that she was scared to contemplate more than she already had.

"Sleep well, Miss Granger?" His voice was moderately husky with the remnants of sleep though still maintained his trademark silkiness. If she denied everything else, she had to admit the seductive nature of his voice had always captured her.

"Yes. Thank you," she answered softly.

Severus looked up at her then, the hushed, faraway tone in her voice pulling his attention from the news article. He knew the young woman had been staring at him; he had sensed her eyes on him after he had heard her descend the stairs. But she had a distant look in her brown eyes, as if she had been reflecting on something outside of this room and current situation.

His black gaze took in her appearance deliberately slow. Her braid from yesterday was gone and her hair once again was a mass of curls about her head. Her face was flushed, her lips parted on some unspoken request. He could see the ivory silk straps of the slip on her pale, freckled shoulders, but the bed sheet covered up the rest of the garment. The girl's modesty had driven her to somehow tie the coverlet on her frame as an improvised gown. He admired her originality even as he was surprised she hadn't tripped down the stairs with all of the voluminous fabric about her ankles.

She shifted under his thorough inspection. He was staring at her like a predator, and after last night, the look stripped her nerves. She didn't know what to do, what to say, how to act in front of this man any more.

"Tonight you'll take the Dreamless Sleep Draught. This is not a request," Severus told her quietly.

"That can become addictive long-term, sir. How long to you intend to keep me?" The question came out softly, but the meaning behind it was heavy between them. They stared at each other, the seconds passing with only the crackling fire to break the silence.

"You will not become addicted, Miss Granger. I will take…measures to prevent such an occurrence."

Unsure and faintly concerned about what that would entail, she swallowed, nodding her head shortly. When she continued to stare at him, he sighed, breaking eye contact to look down at the paper in his lap.

"You may be pleased to learn that you've made the front page of the Daily Prophet. Though in true wizarding editorial fashion, they've somehow happened to use Mr. Potter's name more than yours to describe your own abduction."

In a flurry of curls and the bustling coverlet, she was in front of him, snatching the paper from his lap, her concern for her friends outweighing any fear of Snape. Expecting the sudden movement, he let her take the newspaper without any fuss, watching with a smirk as she scanned the front page.

It had been two days since the destruction of Hogsmeade, and still the Daily Prophet had used one of its tawdry sensational headlines to describe the recovery. _DAY TWO: HOGSMEADE ANNIHILATION – WHO'S REALLY WINNING THIS WAR? Harry Potter's Best Friend Still Missing_. Underneath that, the moving picture caught her attention, her eyes burning with the sudden sting of tears.

In the background was the smoldering ruins of several shops, the damage so complete that she could not identify which buildings they had been. There was a mixture of villagers, some Hogwarts staff, and Aurors. Harry and Ron were at the forefront, the intended focal point of the photograph.

Ron's face was puffy, and her heart lurched as she realized he had been crying. His clothes were disheveled and he looked lost. Ron had a firm grip on the shoulder of the black-haired wizard in front of him; Harry was holding his wand tightly as he lunged towards the camera, his face almost dark with his emotions. She had never seen her best friend so angry before.

Hermione watched the magical photograph repeat the captured movement of the boys before her gaze shifted down to scan the text of the article. She quickly took in the sensationalized recount of the Death Eaters storming Hogsmeade on what had been a quiet, lovely October afternoon. There were, of course, the glowing eyewitness accounts of Harry, surrounded by Lupin and several other Order members as they fought to save the villagers and hold off further attack from the Death Eaters. The eleven villagers and three students that had perished were listed out again. Underneath that, she found her mention in the article, which had given Snape his reason to sneer.

"Still missing in action is Harry Potter's best friend, Muggle-born witch Hermione Granger. One inside source states that Harry is extremely distraught by this recent nefarious action of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Though his friend's body has not been recovered or any word received regarding her capture, there are several eyewitness reports of two possible Death Eaters abducting the girl. When confronted with the likelihood his friend may be another casualty of war, Harry Potter saw fit to hex the reporter."

She smiled at that. At least Harry had got a shot at one of those horrible Daily Prophet leeches.

"Do you find the article amusing, Miss Granger?"

Hermione lowered the paper, once again locked in eye contact with her former professor. He had crossed his arms loosely across his chest and was staring at her, his mouth still twisted in a slight smirk.

She blinked, a thousand questions swirling even as she couldn't form the words. They didn't know. Her friends and the Order had no clue where she was. But then, neither did Voldemort. Surely, if the Death Eaters knew, they would have said something, used it somehow to taunt Harry.

"I need to contact Harry, sir, and let him know that I'm safe."

One of Snape's black eyebrows arched, his lips pulling out thin. "Safe? Do you really think you're safe, child?"

Her heartbeat quickened, and she bit her lip. "No. I mean, yes. Sir, I just don't want them to worry. I promise not to compromise this hiding place, or give Malfoy away."

He pushed to his feet, the abrupt movement startling her so that she nearly toppled backwards in her haste to shift away from him. Snape's lean fingers curled around her bare upper arms, holding her upright.

"At what point did you come to believe you were free, pet?" The question came out on a low hiss, and she closed her eyes to block out his black, fathomless stare. "Open your eyes when I talk to you."

Her eyelids fluttered open again, and without a second thought, her chin rose a fraction as she stared back, suddenly defiant.

"You will not compromise this place or Draco because I will not allow it. You are my prisoner. I may not have shackled you away in the cellar, but do not doubt for a moment that you are confined within these walls until the time that I may release you," he growled, his grip tightening on her arms.

It would not do for the girl to start thinking outside of the reality he had constructed for her since her abduction. The revelation of her wandless magic ability had already strained the situation. If she started to explore too much, to try and uncover things within this house and its occupants, it could be the death of all of them.

She felt the tiny flicker of hope that he was not a Death Eater start to extinguish. She knew he wasn't working for the Order, but she had thought that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't working on the level for Voldemort either. He was harboring Malfoy from the Death Eaters, and had saved her life. Couldn't there be _some_ good in him? Had all of that trust and respect she had held for him all of these years truly been misplaced?

"Am I for Voldemort?" she whispered, her voice trembling slightly on the question.

Snape looked down at the young woman in his grasp, his gaze shifting across her face. He knew he should lash back at her with something hateful, something to distance her curious mind from connecting the dots between the invented reality and that which truly existed. She was getting too close. And he had allowed it because for the first time in decades, he actually felt something. _Something other than pain, cold, and loneliness._

"No. You're for me."

Her eyes widened on the quiet admission, her lips parting to speak but the words were lost on a soft sigh. His right hand left her upper arm, his palm brushing against her bare shoulder before his fingers cupped her chin gently.

"I told you before, I will not hurt you," Severus murmured, his black gaze scanning her upturned face. "But you must not think that I am anything more than what I have already proved to you to be. I am not your friend, Miss Granger, and I am no knight in shining armor that came to your rescue."

"But what if…"

His sudden scowl caused the words to die on her lips, and she tried to move back even as his grip tightened on her upper arm, his hand under her chin stiffening. The rough pad of his thumb smoothed across her lower lip and she trembled in a mixture of fear and something infinitely more dangerous.

"What was it that you did?" The question came out in a snarl, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Tell me!"

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't play games with me, Miss Granger!" He drew back a fraction, pulling his hand from under her jaw, holding it up so she could see.

Hermione stared at the blood on his thumb and index finger, her thoughts scattered momentarily. She hesitantly lifted one hand up to her mouth, touching her fingers to the tip of her tongue.

Severus watched her, the play of emotions naked on her face as she stared at the blood on her fingertips. Confusion had her eyes wide before realization finally dawned.

"Tell me."

She blinked, her gaze shifting from her blood back up to the black eyes of her captor. The flash of anger had eased with the addition of curiosity.

"I was trying," she paused again, staring at the blood on her fingers and swallowing, tasting the faint metallic taste in the back of her throat for the first time. "I wanted to Transfigure some clothes. I thought I would try it without a wand. It was working! I swear, it started, just like any other time I had tried it _with_ my wand…"

"But then?"

"Perhaps my thoughts became distracted? I'm not sure, but it stopped. But I…um, I guess I became annoyed."

One black eyebrow arched as he continued to stare down at her. "Explain."

She giggled, suddenly embarrassed at her behavior. He scowled at the outburst and she swallowed, again tasting the blood in her mouth before she spoke again.

"I stomped my foot. It…it was instantaneous. I had opened the doors to look for a dress, and they slammed shut. The dress fell and the wire hanger…the hanger was bent pretty strange. I didn't…it wasn't on purpose."

Severus grunted, still frowning. "Of course not, you silly girl. Hadn't I warned you about such things?"

Her eyes narrowed then, and she would have moved her hands to her hips if he didn't still have a strong hold on one of her upper arms. "I don't intend to walk around in a bed sheet all day, sir, and I certainly do not plan to spend my days here in this…this _prison _wearing some itchy, mothball-smelling dress from Auntie Poor Taste's closet! If you don't want me to use my wand then I'm going to bloody well try what I can to acquire some knickers!"

His other black eyebrow arched to mirror the first as he stared down at her, for once speechless. Suddenly realizing what she had blurted out, in front of a former professor no less, her face blushed scarlet. She looked down at her free hand, drawing it into a fist, ignoring as the blood smeared across her pale flesh.

"All you had to do was ask, child," he spoke then, his voice tinged with faint amusement. Hermione glanced back up at him. His black eyes caught hers, holding her attention as his hand encircled hers, his fingers pressing gently into hers to stop the fidgeting.

"I'm traveling to Aberdeen sometime today for supplies. While there I will purchase some appropriate Muggle clothes and under things for you. In the meantime, try not to perform any more wandless magic."

She held his gaze for a moment longer before looking back at the blood smeared on her fingers, her small hand encased in his. _It was all unreal, just…_

The most hated professor of Hogwarts, killer of Dumbledore, was holding her hand. He had promised to buy her knickers. The whole thing would have had her laughing out loud if not for the utter seriousness of the situation.

_She was a prisoner of war. _He had said as much, and more than anything else, she needed to remind herself of it.

"Miss Granger."

She blinked, swaying slightly on her feet as she glanced back up at him. She felt his grip tighten on her upper arm, more in an attempt to steady her than anything else.

"It is vitally important you do not try any more wandless magic, do you understand? I do not wish to bind you, but I will if you give me no choice," he warned her softly, his silky voice low. He felt her fingers twitch in his grasp, but did not let go of her hand.

"You could teach me," she whispered. Before he could speak, she rushed on. "Please, sir, if you intend to keep me here, please help me with this."

He sighed, the sound world-weary. This reminded him not of her exemplary record in potions, but instead of his attempt to teach Potter Occlumency. It was a rather painful, trying experience, one he wished not to repeat. But unlike the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Pain-In-His-Arse, the girl, for all her questions and annoying Gryffindor traits, was one of the most brilliant minds he'd had the pleasure of teaching. And like it or not, he was stuck with her for an underdetermined amount of time.

"I do not possess this talent, but I am familiar with it. I will attempt to guide you if only you promise to refrain from practicing on your own. I fear there are not enough handkerchiefs in this house to clean up the damage you keep inflicting upon yourself."

A smile touched her mouth before the girl had the good sense to cover it. She nodded, straightening her back slightly as she returned his steady gaze.

"Thank you, sir."

"Don't thank me yet," he answered her darkly. "In the end, you may wish you had never asked at all."

Severus saw the small movement of her throat as she swallowed before she looked down at their entwined hands again.

"Come now, you'll need to drink some water to wash away the blood of your latest _attempt_."

Still grasping her hand, he led her towards the kitchen, his black-cloaked figure rigid as they walked.

"Why are the light bulbs missing in this room?" Hermione asked quietly. Severus paused, not turning back to look at her. She thought she heard him sigh again, but the sound was nearly inaudible so she couldn't be sure.

"Stop dithering about," he ordered, and she followed him the rest of the way into the brightly lit kitchen.

Severus let go of her hand and she stood next to the dinette table as he strode over to the sink, reaching up into one of the high cabinets for a glass. Her attention shifted from him to the rest of the room.

There was a metal teapot on the stove, a whirl of steam drifting up from the spout. A pad of paper lay on the clean counter, an inkpot and quill nearby. On the kitchen table three plates were already set out with cutlery and teacups. A stack of toast occupied the middle of the table, surrounded by various jars of jelly, a small slab of butter with a rather dull looking knife and dainty glasses filled with cream and sugar.

"Merlin, you two are up early!"

Hermione almost jumped, her startled gaze turning sharply to the large entry to the kitchen. Malfoy stood in the doorway, smiling at them both. Like yesterday morning, he was wearing jeans and trainers, his shirt covered by a jumper to hold off the chill. His hair was dry though slightly disheveled, and she assumed he had already showered.

Severus had heard the boy come down the stairs but had chosen to ignore him. The girl's last question was still at the front of his thoughts. It was troubling that she had noticed such a mundane detail; it terrified him that she might be smart enough to draw any sort of conclusion from it. If nothing else, he had to remember never to underestimate her. It was becoming painfully clear that the girl was his intellectual equal; if not for his life experiences and mistrust of everyone and everything, he was confident she could beat him at this game.

"Here, drink," Severus told her, handing her the glass. Malfoy glanced at him for a moment before looking back at the bushy-haired girl with the bed sheet tied around her, knotted at her chest.

Hermione took the glass, swishing the water in her mouth before downing it. She could still taste the blood in the back of her mouth, but it was faint. The blood…what had Snape told her yesterday in this very room?

"It is a symptom. You brought too much magic back into your body."

She would have to research this. If she couldn't practice wandless magic without him, there was nothing wrong with her writing down her own hypothesis and researching them against all of the books currently at her disposal.

"What in Circe's name are you wearing, Granger?" The platinum-haired wizard was smirking, his cold blue-gray gaze slowly drifting from her face, past her bare shoulders to examine the bed sheet draped around her.

Hermione frowned at him, not in the mood to deal with Malfoy, even the ever changing, somewhat bearable to be around Malfoy.

"Sod off, Malfoy."

"Get yourself something to eat, boy," Severus halted their argumentation, his black eyes on the wizard in the doorway. He turned back to Hermione, taking the half empty glass from her hand. Malfoy watched with mild interest before sitting down in his chair at the table, reaching over for two pieces of toast.

"You still need to apply the healing salve this morning and again at night or the slicing hex will scar," Snape spoke softly to her, turning to set her glass in the sink. "I'll bring up a pain-potion later."

"You have a potions lab here, sir?" It had been her assumption, but for him to mention it once again stirred her interest.

His back stiffened; he was still at the sink facing away from Hermione. He paused for a moment to control his emotions before he turned, his black gaze narrow on her. Draco had paused in the act of spreading strawberry preserves on his toast, his blue-gray eyes wide as his attention shifted between the older wizard and the witch.

"It's strictly off limits to you. You will _not_ make attempts to access it. If you do, I will know and I will _not_ be pleased."

She nodded slightly, her lips parting on a reply when a sharp gasp of pain and the clattering of silverware on the worn tiles stilled her. Malfoy had slid off of the chair and was curled up on the floor. He was bent over, his white-blond hair sliding across the contorted features of his face as the fingers of his left hand dug into the flesh of his right forearm.

Snape grunted and Hermione looked over at the scowling wizard. He had his wand out, and she watched, fascinated, as he Transfigured his black silk pajamas into Death Eater robes.

"_Accio_ mask!" Severus held out his hand as the silvery mask slid through the entryway of the kitchen into his open palm. He paused in the action of placing the disguise on his face, his black eyes intense on her.

"The Dark Lord is calling," he said softly, his voice almost emotionless. She stared at him, feeling an unexpected helplessness.

"It hurts you like this?"

"Like fire. Every time," he answered quietly. His black eyes left her, scowling suddenly at the boy across the room. "Draco!"

Hermione's attention was jolted back to Malfoy and she gasped. The platinum-haired wizard had picked up the nearest weapon and the fork was now embedded deep within the middle of the Dark Mark on his forearm, blood streaming in crimson rivulets down his pale flesh. The fabric of the jumper was pushed up to his elbow, exposing the gory scene explicitly to her.

"_Merlin!_ Malfoy!"

Hermione was riveted to the spot, the current situation too unreal for her to even process her next move. She choked back a scream when she felt Snape's lean fingers curl around her bare upper arm again.

"You have to take care of him, Miss Granger," he spoke softly, securing the mask to his face. She shifted, ignoring the uneasiness at the vision of the Death Eater so close to her.

"I'll…yes, of course," she muttered, her brown eyes still wide as she stared at him.

"I have to go. The Dark Lord does not accept tardiness."

She nodded, and with a winded pop signaling Apparation, he was gone. She stared at the empty spot that Severus had occupied for several moments before she turned and walked hurriedly over to Malfoy, crouching down on the ground next to him.

It was odd and extremely alarming to see her former nemesis in such a state. He was still hunched over, the fork sticking out of his forearm almost forgotten as Malfoy hugged himself, his arms crossed tightly around his torso, his hands gripping the blue fabric of the jumper.

Hesitating for only a moment, she moved forward, her fingers curling around the handle of the fork. She started to tug it free from the flesh of his forearm when he hissed sharply, pulling back from her.

"Don't you touch me, you _filthy_ Mudblood!"

Hermione slapped him, the act unintentional but immediate, the sound echoing within the walls of the brightly lit kitchen. Both were breathing heavily, staring at each other. She broke eye contact first, her attention drawn to his mouth as blood pooled at the right corner and dribbled its way down his pale chin. She had split his lip open.

She moved to touch his face but pulled back, rocking to her feet in one fluid movement, the sheet billowing around her. Without a word, she turned and walked to the sink, grabbing the closest tea towel and dampening it with lukewarm water under the faucet.

Hermione made her way back to Malfoy and knelt down in front of him. His cold blue-gray eyes followed her actions without blinking, watching her soundlessly as she reached for his right hand, pulling his arm out in front of him and closer to her.

Draping the damp cloth for a moment on one of her knees, she pressed a warm hand against his bloodied forearm as she eased the fork slowly from his flesh. Once free, she dropped the silverware with a loud clink against the tiles, working swiftly to press the washcloth against the flow of blood.

She stared at the cream colored cloth as the pink seeped into the edges. It was unreal, all of this was just unreal.

The strangled sound of a broken sob brought her head back up. Malfoy was still staring at her fixedly, but his eyes were now wet, reflecting the bright light of the kitchen with his unshed tears.

"I need," he started, the sentence severed short as another sob was wretched out of him. "I'm so sorry. _Please_. I need you."

"I don't understand," she whispered. He shook his head shortly, the tears pooling in his eyes breaking free and sliding down his pale cheeks. He brushed back his blond hair roughly with the hand on his uninjured arm, his eyes intense with the unbidden plea.

"Just…I need you to hold…please…"

He caught her off guard, pitching forwards into her, his arms surrounding her tightly, bringing her closer to him even as he leaned into her, his wet face hot against the top hem of the sheet where it was tied above her breasts.

"Malfoy?" She touched his hair hesitantly, her other hand pressing gently against his back. "Draco?"

He broke down completely then, his body wracked with violent sobs as he held himself against her for comfort. Hermione's touch was tentative as first, but steadily she found herself responding to him as if he were Harry or Ron. He wasn't Malfoy, her hated pureblood bully, but just another boy, one of her friends; another lost soul in this never-ending war.

Perhaps that's what they all really were, three broken people brought together in the middle of war. Everything else aside, she found reassurance in that thought as she comforted the platinum-haired wizard in her arms.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** I love each and every one of them – it keeps me at this fic.

**A/N:** I have seriously sucked at the time it took to update this; this year has been insane. If you're still with me, my apologies and a big thank you – I will be updating more frequently now that certain aspects of my life have changed.

**Chapter Nine**

It always took a moment or two after Apparating to temper his thoughts. The magical mode of travel, no matter how used to it he was, or how much he prepared for it, always scattered his iron control over his own mind. Severus had wondered on more than one occasion if in that split second, his true self was naked before the Dark Lord. But surely, if that were the case, he would have been dead years ago.

He held onto that dark thought as his tall black boots made contact with the bare earth, his heavy cloak swirling around him as Severus once again reined in his mind, securing it magically with the talent of an experienced Occlumens.

The fog was dense, flowing in a heavy mist around the gloomy ruins of the old mansion. From the crumbling, burnt façade and thick, twisting brambles that appeared to consume the house, this place had the appearance of something that had been abandoned, untouched by a soul in a hundred years. But as with everything in the wizarding world, looks could be deceiving.

Severus stalked through the open gate of the dilapidated fence, the fog seemingly alive around his cloak as he made his way to the large, heavy doors of the mansion. He tapped his wand against the ornate brass door knocker, standing back as the fixture glowed green. The door groaned, opening slowly with a low creak. Swallowing, his grip tightening instinctively on his wand, Severus made his way inside.

The inside of the building had been magically restored, appearing untouched by time and decay. Lamps that would be considered expensive antiques by muggles lit the large foyer, highlighting the marble floors and intricate rug. Severus walked soundlessly across the large entrance, coming to the open set of French doors to his left.

"…but he wasn't suppose to kill him, Master, that was to come…"

"Do you question me, Wormtail?"

"No, no, oh, _forgive_ me, Master."

Severus paused in the doorway, his black eyes quickly taking in the scene. Voldemort was sitting on the deep lavender velvet sofa in front of the fire place, his dark green cloak pooled around him, the material shimmering like silk in the firelight. Pettigrew was crouched in front of the Dark Lord, blood on his gnarled hands, a slight tremor visible from his back. Eight other cloaked Death Eaters were either sitting or standing in the room, all masked except Bella and Nott.

Severus raised an eyebrow at the older wizard; Nott had been in Azkaban, in a cell not too far away from Lucius Malfoy's. Nott grinned crookedly back at him. The bastard had somehow escaped.

"Ssseveruss."

Severus strode over to Voldemort, quickly taking to one knee next to Pettigrew. "My lord."

"Look at me, Severus."

Severus slowly raised his head, looking into the cold, scarlet eyes of the dark wizard. There was a half smile on his skeletal face. A slow trickle of dread started to pool in the pit of Severus' stomach; grinning, Voldemort appeared even more demonic and insane than usual.

"I was starting to wonder if you would not be joining us this evening."

"My apologies, my lord. I was working on the potion," Severus answered slowly, his voice low and even. Every word was planned, every action deliberate in front of this wizard.

"Ah, yes. Tell me, Severus, how is it coming along? Close yet to…testing?"

Severus held back the instinct to swallow the dread tightening his throat, relying heavily on his iron-clad control not to reveal anything. He could feel the presence of Voldemort in his mind, the soft, almost gentle pressure against certain memories. Severus, as always, gave him access to that which was necessary and those memories constructed just for the Dark Lord's benefit.

"Yes. Another month, and…"

"I already have several muggles ready for the task, Severus. Roldolphus has been making them feel quite…at home," Voldemort said lowly, his voice no more than a hiss.

One black eyebrow arched as Severus glanced at Pettigrew still shivering next to him, crouched in front of Voldemort, his gaze shifting up to meet the maniacal glare of Bella Lestrange.

"Has Roldolphus killed one already, my lord?" Severus asked, turning back to Voldemort. The demonic wizard shook his head, the thin smile still carved into his skeletal face.

"No, Severus. Your batch of test muggles is all alive. Roldophus has instead been playing with our guest of honortonight. One of those pesky little Order members. Bella caught him for me."

"For information?"

"Ah, yes, information on this little mudblood friend of Potter's." Voldemort paused, his red eyes glittering in the glow of the firelight. "You remember the one, yes, Severus? She is the one I promised to you, a…_gift_."

Severus bowed his head, using the action to hide his eyes and rein in control of the sudden stab of fear. "Of course, my lord."

"Unfortunately, Roldolphus does tend to have a heavy hand with his _information seeking_. Quite interesting that one can't live long after losing three liters of blood," he added, his voice breaking on a short, sinister laugh.

"I want to know where she has gone, Severus. The Order seems to think that we have her, but yet…we do not," Voldemort continued, the smile fading from his white, sunken face. "But the trauma this has caused Harry…

"I want her. I've never felt such pain from the boy as I do now. His dreams are exquisitely dark, his hope, fading…," Voldemort trailed off, his red eyes unfocused for a brief second as one of his spidery, bony hands pressed against the collar of his dark green robes. "Bella will find her for me, won't you, Bella?"

Severus glanced over again at the once beautiful witch unmasked in the small throng of Death Eaters. She was still smiling, the expression only adding to the wildness of her face and dark eyes.

"Yes, master," she answered, nodding as she twirled her wand haphazardly around the thin fingers of her right hand. "The mudblood bitch will be yours, my lord."

"My lord, I can…"

"Severus, I know you would like this task, but the potion is of utmost importance. Besides, we will be having reinforcements in short order. Roldolphus hasn't lost his touch."

Severus felt the dread again, the feeling tightening nauseously in his stomach. The smile was back on Voldemort's skeletal face.

"Soon the faithful will be free from Azkaban. This Order member was valuable for something, Severus. Information that will open the wards of Azkaban and free my Death Eaters. Once again they will be by my side, doing my bidding."

Voldemort's head tilted and Severus felt the pressure again, the probing inside his brain as the older wizard tried to find something inside his thoughts.

"Soon our friend Lucius will be free to find his son, to prove his loyalty to me with the death of Draco. Only with the blood of the traitor will I accept Malfoy again in the circle." Voldemort paused, clicking his teeth with the tip of his tongue, his crimson eyes boring into Severus. "I know you wanted this task for your own as well, Severus."

"I do only my master's bidding, my lord," Severus answered quietly. Voldemort made a sound low in his throat.

"My most faithful servant," Voldemort mused, his red eyes shifting across the other Death Eaters, heavy meaning in his glittery stare. His focus returned once again to the black-haired wizard kneeling in front of him next to the still shaking Pettigrew. "Stand, Severus."

Severus pushed up to his feet, his hands at his sides, ignoring the pleading look of Pettigrew crouched next to him.

"I will be calling on you frequently, Severus. I want to know the moment you have finished the potion."

"Of course, my lord."

"Good. You're free to leave." Voldemort dismissed him with a flick of one spidery hand and Severus nodded once, turning to head back out the French doors. He didn't miss the glare of the other Death Eaters behind their silvery masks, or the maniacal smile of Bella, still twirling her wand like some sort of demented baton performer.

Severus didn't feel his breathing return to normal until the fourth time apparating from front yard of the old mansion, using multiple apparitions, as always, to determine if he was being followed. He stood in the shadows of the familiar alleyway, his left hand on the cold, damp brick wall in front of him, his right hand curled tightly around his wand.

Glancing both ways into the shadows, Severus made sure he was alone in the narrow corridor before murmuring the spell to Transfigure his Death Eater robes into a pair of dark indigo muggle jeans and silk black button down dress shirt, leaving the tall black boots. He then performed a simple _durcheinander_ charm on his face so he would be easily forgettable to anyone, especially muggles, after dealing with them.

He crouched down and picked up a crumpled, rather soiled newspaper rolling around in the breeze next to him. Tapping his wand against the paper, he Transfigured it into an adequate amount of muggle British currency for his needs this trip. Pocketing the cash and then his wand, he made his way cautiously if not inconspicuously out into bright, bustling street.

It had been a last minute decision to come to Glasgow instead of Aberdeen. Though their safe house outside of Banchory was still quite away from Aberdeen, Glasgow was even further, and based on Voldemort's intense interest now in Granger, exceedingly safer. Severus had been to Glasgow before; indeed, he had taken note of a multitude of alleyways, this one included, so he could use them in the future and avoid splinching.

Of course, it would be the first time he was here to buy clothing for a woman. Clothing and underthings for Hermione Granger, no less.

Frowning at the thought and undesirable task ahead of him, he blended into the crowd, disappearing as well as he could among the colorful American tourists, the bubbling mothers and their prams, pickpockets and old couples out for a stroll. He had heard Glasgow described as a "dirty little town", but he always felt quite comfortable in the city, the easy anonymity of being around so many others, and yet the smells and sounds still close to that of the small town of his birth.

Rather than gamble on the confined, older shops lining the busy streets, he headed towards the looming Buchanan Galleries, the closest shopping center near his apparition point. He imagined the girl probably had visited a mall similar to this, if not the same one, in her time before Hogwarts, or even in her summer vacations away from the castle. Perhaps it was where she bought most of her muggle clothes, those things the girl wore when she wasn't in uniform.

Severus followed the crowd through the main doors closest to him, not bothering to pause and read the floor plan situated right at the entrance. He wanted to do this as quickly as possible while still appearing as if he belonged. Drawing attention to himself was something he had learned early on to avoid at all costs. He would simply buy the girl clothes, make a stop at the farmer's market outside of the city for supplies, and then apparate several more times before making it back to the safe house.

He strode into the first clothing store with female mannequins in the display windows. Shifting out of the way of the open doors, he paused for a moment, his black gaze sharply taking in the surroundings with a trickling sense of dread. Women were everywhere, laughing and talking nosily while pouring over all sorts of colorful assortments of female apparel.

He scoffed at himself. He had faced down death, had suffered the Cruciatus curse more times then he could remember, had murdered for Merlin's sake, and he was scared of _this_?

Lips pulled out in a thin line, he walked over to the closest rack and started flicking through the hanging dresses. After all, he had served as Slytherian Head of House for well over a decade. It's not like he knew absolutely nothing of females and this silly little habit of shopping. If only he could Transfigure the entire damn closet for her, but yet, like he had explained to her, and Draco before that, they had to limit their use of magic as so not to draw unwanted attention. It would be painfully sardonic if his safe house were discovered because he had Transfigured a pair of knickers for the Granger girl.

"Is there something I can help you with?"

He bit back a snarl as he turned to the cheerful assistant that had suddenly appeared next to him. The smile dropped from her face and the woman appeared frightened, blinking at the pale, dark-haired man with a positively livid expression curling his upper lip.

"I'm sor…sorry, sir, to bother you."

Mood darkening, he turned back to the rack and its mix of odd numbers supposedly representing different dress sizes. Damn the know-it-all witch. She was nothing but complications he didn't need and didn't want. It was bad enough he was risking death itself to take care of the boy; Granger was now Voldemort's main focus in bringing down Potter and the girl was now hidden under his care. And she expected him to _shop_ for her?

He should have forced her to wear the damn mothball smelling old dresses, should have ignored her stupid, childish request for knickers.

His lean, pale fingers paused on the dress in front of him, his black eyes unseeing. She was, after all, his prisoner. No, he hadn't chained her in the cellar, as he had told her earlier that morning, but she wasn't free. She would wear what he deemed she would wear; if he felt she should spend the day in that short, cream slip, then the girl would bloody well wear the damn thing.

The vision of her from last night came back clearly, the lush sheen of her bare flesh glistening in the moonlight streaming through the lone window. The slip was damp from the sweat of her nightmares, the silky material bunched up to expose the briefest glimpse of her thighs. He had never thought he would derive pleasure from looking at the Gryffindor know-it-all. That one moment made a mockery of that notion; he found her quite exquisite. Not traditionally beautiful, no, but stunning in her unknowing sensuality. He had a hint of it that one night over a year agonumber twelve, Grimmauld Place, but last night…

He wanted her.

"_At what point did you come to believe you were free, pet?"_

"_Am I for Voldemort?"_

"_No. You're for me."_

Teeth grinding, his jaw locked as he pulled the dress from the rack. _Merlin's balls!_ What in Circe's name was wrong with him?

Severus strode hurriedly through the shop, pulling various items of clothing off racks, hardly glancing at the articles, just enough to calculate that they were within the chit's proportions. His expression darkened even further when faced with the task of picking out knickers. Severus grabbed several pairs from the assortment, almost passing the wall of brasseries altogether. He didn't imagine it would hurt her terribly to go without one, but she would likely take it as an affront to her modesty.

He paid for the items, daring the woman behind the counter to say anything beyond what was necessary to complete the transaction. The woman was exceptionally smarter than his former students; she kept her mouth shut, only giving him an odd look when ringing up the assorted bunch of panties.

His temper black, Severus headed out of the shop and made his way out of the Buchanan Galleries. It was only when he could sneak unnoticed into another alleyway that he was able to shrink the packages of clothes with his wand, tucking the miniaturized bags into the pockets of his jeans. He apparated at that time to another one of his known, secluded apparition points, once again making sure he was not being followed before heading out into the bright, noisy farmers' market.

Usually, as with his potions work, he believed in making lists, but the Dark Lord had called before he had the chance to pen one this morning. Though his mood was still black, he focused his attention on haggling with various muggles, filling his procured basket with fresh meat, fruit and vegetables. At the baker's, his thoughts drifted; he wondered if the Granger girl could cook. It would be one of the few benefits of their situation, for Severus was getting tired of making meals for both him and the boy. Draco couldn't even boil water without the use of a wand.

Slipping inconspicuously into the dark, deserted alleyway, he once again shrunk his purchases with a simple flourish of his wand, slipping the miniaturized packages into the pockets of his jeans. Only taking a moment to undo the charm on his face, he apparated no less than six times before he finally appeared back in the kitchen of the farm house outside of Banchory.

It was less than a second before the girl appeared in the doorway, her face rosy and her breathing quickened as if prepared for battle. One black eyebrow arched as he took in her appearance; as before, when she had heard him apparate into the kitchen, she was once again holding the fire poker firmly in her right hand, as if the rusty, bent tool could somehow defend her against an armed wizard or witch.

The bustling sheet from that morning was gone and now she was wearing some sort of white cotton sleeveless sundress, the faint smell of mothballs once again tickling his senses. The dress was unadorned and nearly long enough that the hem brushed the tops of her bare feet, so simple and plain that it made her look like some sort of sacrificial virgin, prepared for the gods. The look on her face didn't help his sudden thought of her, her flushed cheeks, parted lips and erratic halo of curls making her look entirely too innocent. Yet even with the fear naked in her glittering brown eyes, he saw the fierce determination behind it. _No, not a victim, more like Joan of Arc or the goddess Athena._

He scowled, disturbed by his own thoughts. The chit was going to make him lose his mind. If only the dark lord knew a teenage girl had the upper hand in making Severus Snape finally crack. Oh, the irony was rich.

"Are you going to greet me each time with the fire poker, Miss Granger? Do I need to spell it out for you that such a weapon would do nothing against a wizard with a wand, save cause him to die of laughter from such absurdity?" Severus sneered, his silky voice low with the spoken ridicule. Not bothering to see her reaction, he turned to the main expanse of kitchen counter, taking out the packages.

"What am I to do then, sir?" Hermione asked, the tone of her voice high. She lowered the fire poker to her side, standing still in the doorway as she watched him pull out several miniaturized boxes and bags from his pockets, performing the spell to restore them to their original size. She blinked, suddenly speechless as she took in his appearance.

Obviously he had changed or Transfigured his clothing for the task of shopping among the muggles. She had never seen her former professor in muggle attire, jeans and a black silk shirt no less. He looked…different. Somehow younger, perhaps even somewhat approachable, but still undeniably dangerous.

"You did get the know-it-all title for a reason, did you not?" he replied harshly, his back to her as he removed groceries from the paper bags. "I didn't save your life so you could drive me mad with all your inane questions."

She frowned, setting the fire poker down against the door frame and walking into the kitchen. As much as she took pride in her intelligence, as much as she knew she earned that title, it still grated on her as an obvious taunt.

"That is rather…"

"Take these." He had turned abruptly, cutting her off. Two large shopping packages were in his hands, the logo of a popular woman's clothing store pictured on the front. She glanced up from the bags, staring at him in muted shock. He scowled at her expression.

"As amusing as you are with that rather dolt look on your face, I have things to do," Severus stated, once again gesturing for her to take the bags. Swallowing, still speechless, she took the purchases from his outstretched hands, setting the bags down on the floor as she sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs. Looking up, she saw that once again his back was to her as he resumed the task to unloading food items out onto the counter.

She couldn't think of what to say. Yes, he said he would buy clothes for her, and certainly, she did trust him as someone who would do what he promised, but it was still unexpected that he actually had bought her clothing. Hermione gingerly reached into the wide bags, silently surveying the contents. Shirts, jeans, some dresses and her face flushed as she saw assorted knickers and even a rather sturdy looking white bra, all exact or very close to her size.

She moistened her dry lips, watching his deft movements for a moment while she tried to gather her thoughts. "Sir...," she started, stopping as her voice was scratchy. Snape had paused in his task, though his back was still to her. Hermione cleared her throat and started again.

"I'd like to thank you. This…I know…," she sighed, lost for one of the few times for words.

"I said I would, child." Severus turned from the countertop to face her, his black eyes severe. She forced herself from drawing back from the intensity of his stare. "Don't thank me."

He scowled, his head tilting a fraction as his black gaze shifted from her to the empty kitchen doorway. "Where is Draco?"

"He's in his room. After you left, he needed some time alone. Some music, some sketching…he was just down here about thirty minutes ago to borrow a book of yours."

Severus made some muffled sound in the back of his throat. His black gaze was once again on her. "And you, Miss Granger? What trouble have you been up to while I was gone?"

She frowned back at him. "Nothing! I was reading…"

He stalked over to her, grabbing her right hand before she could protest. Holding her small hand tightly in his calloused one, he spread her fingers, exposing the black ink smudges against her pale skin.

"You've been working," he said softly, confirming what he already knew. The intensity of his stare, the directness in his deceptively gentle voice caused her to look away.

"I told you explicitly you were not to try any wandless magic…"

Hermione looked back up at him, instinctively trying to pull her hand free from his strong, thin fingers. "I wasn't practicing any sort of magic! I was researching…"

"Researching?" He held her hand securely in his, his obsidian eyes boring into her.

"Reading and writing down my thoughts. I found the paper, quill and ink in the kitchen and started going through the books that might pertain to this anomaly…"

Snape grasped her jaw firmly with his free hand, the swift, sure action causing the sentence to die abruptly in her throat. He leaned down closer to her, Hermione still sitting in the kitchen chair, her former professor towering over her.

He tilted her head upwards, his black gaze taking in her face, specifically checking for fresh blood around her nose. His thumb caught her lower lip, parting her lips with gentle pressure to check further for signs of the affects of unchecked wandless magic on her body.

Hermione's heartbeat quickened under the quick yet thorough inspection. She was telling the truth; she had spent the last several hours pouring over books, making notes, analyzing not only the literature but her own personal experiences in regards to what was documented. As promised, she had not made further attempts at magic. Showering and dressing had all been done in muggle fashion.

She had been sorely tempted to try and Transfigure something again, but held herself in check remembering Snape's anger from this morning. Instead she found the simple white gown in the back of the closet. Though sleeveless, the hem was long enough to cover the stretch of her legs, and the white cotton thick enough that she felt almost decent without a brassiere. She was well aware that her shape was outlined under the cotton, if Malfoy's lingering glances from this morning was any indication, but at least she wouldn't embarrass herself if it became cold. That and the smell of mothballs were significantly less than the articles of clothing closer to the front of the chifferobe.

His thumb moving gently against her plump lower lip brought her focus back to Snape. His black gaze was on her mouth and there was something intense about the look that she couldn't describe. For a moment, she thought that maybe he might hurt her; her body was reacting at the most basic level, something screaming inside of her to beware.

His calloused thumb moved against her lower lip, caressing her flesh. She knew then, even as inexperienced as she was. Hermione couldn't help the small gasp. The startled sound brought his attention up from her mouth to her brown eyes. The expression in his black gaze was nearly feral, and exceedingly possessive.

"Sir?"

He turned abruptly and walked back over to the kitchen counter, his back to her once again.

Severus was tormented. He noticed with distain that there was a fine tremor to his thin, pale hands and he internally cursed the witch for causing such a reaction in him. Had he really been so long without a woman that his own body was reacting so primitively to the Gryffindor princess? _She was barely a woman, insufferable, and annoying…_

Yet his intellectual equal, given a couple of years and some experience. Not to mention, she was quite lovely, even with the curly mess of her hair and her irritating penchant for being right.

_Damn Merlin!_ The scowl deepened on Severus face as he pushed thoughts of her out of his head, resuming the task of removing the last of the groceries from the paper bags.

"Can you cook?" His silky voice came out low, and for a moment, she thought she had heard him wrong.

"Sir?"

"It was a simple question, Miss Granger."

"Yes," she murmured in reply, her attention moving from his straight back to the food accumulating on the counter around Snape.

"Well?"

"I suppose decently enough." She stood, hesitating for only a moment before she made her way to the counter next to him. She surveyed the items as he started stashing the cold produce away in the refrigerator.

"Who taught you?" Severus asked, not bothering to glance at her as he continued his task.

"I…well, one summer back with my parents, I think between third and fourth year, I had run out of things to read. My mother had this book, _The Joy of Cooking_…"

He laughed, a short, incredulous sound, his hand paused on the open refrigerator door as he stared back at her.

"Trust you of all people to memorize a cookbook. You really are an insufferable know-it-all, Miss Granger."

She frowned at him. "You asked me that question for a chance to mock me?"

"Not that I need a chance to do so, but no." His expression looked divided between a smirk and a scowl. "So from reading this book, you consider yourself able to cook?"

"I've helped my mother on occasion. An expansive experience isn't necessarily needed for correct application if the knowledge is there. Take Potions, for example…"

"Exactly," he cut her off. "Knowledge will only get you so far. Creativity, intuition, these things are also necessary for success."

He sighed, and for the briefest moment, she saw through his calculated façade to how tired he actually was.

"This one thing I could never teach you. You may be the smartest witch I know, but until you realize not everything you need to know comes from the pages of some book, you'll never live up to your potential."

Hermione once again was speechless. It was a backhanded compliment, but still a compliment. And from a man she had gone out of her way for praise over the years, the single one of her many professors that she could never please; the same man that had cruelly derided her once even though among her friends, indeed her entire house, she was the only one who ever gave him respect.

_Oh, how she wanted to hate him!_ He had been so harsh, so thoroughly nasty and belittling in her achievements, but she had never founded it in herself to hate him. Until, of course, she had heard from Harry how it had been Snape who killed Dumbledore.

Her thoughts still trying to encompass the fact that he had actually praised her, she automatically started helping him put away the groceries. Picking the dry items out of the assortment of food on the counter, she walked to the open pantry to the right of the refrigerator.

Just like the Professor's potions storage room, the pantry was structured with almost clinical precision. Taking note of the organizational pattern, Hermione started the process of stowing the items away in the correct place, memorizing the contents in the pantry so she could plan recipes. His short berating of her sounded like a challenge, and she was never one to let that go unanswered. If someone ever said she couldn't do something, she would do nearly anything to prove them wrong. _Short of getting on a broom, of course._

She had been so focused in mentally cataloguing the items in the pantry she didn't hear as Snape came up behind her. He had finished stashing away the cold groceries and was once again drawn to the young woman.

He watched her intently, knowing without Legilimency that she was memorizing the contents and planning a way to make herself once again appear above everyone else in his eyes. It was something she had done repeatedly at Hogwarts and knowing that, it made her immensely easier to manipulate. _Always having to prove herself…_

"I'll make you a bet."

She gasped and he reached out smoothly, gripping her upper arm firmly to steady her. She turned to face him, her shocked expression darkening to something accusatory.

"You startled me!"

"That is quite obvious. You should pay better attention to your surroundings."

She frowned up at him and a smirk pulled at his thin lips.

"You'll cook dinner tonight, Miss Granger," he ordered silkily.

Her scowl deepened. "And why would I want to do that?"

"Because if I enjoy what you make, I'll give you a lesson on wandless magic tomorrow, perhaps even go over your research with you."

She blinked, and then smiled, her eyes suddenly shining with excitement. _So easy to please_, he thought. Tease her with knowledge, bait her with the chance to prove it to him and she smiled at him like he had given her some sort of gift.

"My research from today is quite comprehensive. I've cross-referenced the history of…"

"Not yet," he stopped her, his grip tightening a fraction on her upper arm. "You do this for me first. And with no help from me. I have things to do in my lab and do not have time to baby-sit."

"Cooking's not that hard," Hermione replied, staring back up at him, her smile fading.

"Indeed. Tell that to Draco."

"What about Draco?"

His thin lips pulled into a frown. "Enough questions. You need to start planning and executing your dinner plans."

Several moments passed in silence as they stared at each other, his right hand still secure around her upper arm. She was suddenly quite viscerally aware his calloused palm was touching bare skin. She didn't understand; for as much as she had respected Professor Snape, he had never affected her like this. Then again, she had never been in such a situation, had never been so close to the wizard. Had never been given the chance to know him on such a level…

"What do you like?" The question came out soft, her voice betraying how the touch was affecting her.

His grip loosened slightly and his thumb brushed lazily against the pale, freckled skin of her upper arm. Goosebumps rose in reaction to the casual contact, and his black eyes narrowed knowingly in response.

"Surprise me," he taunted her quietly. "But whatever you do, make it creative, pet."

He let go of her abruptly, stalking out of the kitchen in a tall, black blur. It would have been more impressive if he had on his usual frock coat, but the exit was still dramatic.

She stood in place for several minutes, trying to ease the tremblingly and the sudden weakness in her knees.

If she wasn't already mad, she knew with certainty that he would drive her to be. She had never been so fearful of anything in her life.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** I love each and every one of them – it keeps me at this fic. I apologize for not responding to every one – time is not my friend.

**A/N:** Yes, I realize I suck immensely at the delay in chapters. My life is…insane, if one word could be used to describe the current chaos. Chapter 11 is about half way done, and as long as life doesn't throw me another curve ball, I'm sticking with this fic.

**Chapter Ten**

After Snape had left her alone in the kitchen, she finished her quick yet thorough inventory of the contents of both the pantry and refrigerator. Unfortunately, she could not recall exactly what the tall, pale professor enjoyed most from the meals served in the Great Hall; she had either been too busy in her own life to care, or smart enough to know to stare openly at him would bring ridicule, if not at that exact moment, later on in his classroom in front of her peers and the despised House of Slytherin.

Hermione finally decided on a traditional meal of Beef Wellington paired with a simple horseradish sauce and braised parsnips. Aside from the fact that she had never seen any of her classmates turn down the dish in all her years at Hogwarts, the meal was quite filling. Though Snape had a commanding, fearful presence, he was fairly thin. If he had been Harry or Ron, she would have worried over him, prodding him to eat, loading up his plate for him and making sure he finished every last bite before allowing him to leave the table.

The thought made her laugh aloud, the sound boisterous and out of place in the empty, stark kitchen. If she went any where near him with such intent, he would probably hex her hair on fire or something equally unpleasant.

Malfoy appeared in the kitchen doorway just as she finishing up the horseradish sauce. For several minutes, he just stood in the entrance, watching her silently. Though Hermione mostly ignored him, she grimaced over her work, knowing his curiosity was probably due to the fact he hadn't seen anyone cook aside from the house elves at Hogwarts and Malfoy Manor.

Snape showed up several moments later, stalking down the hall from where Hermione knew his mysterious lab had to be. The kitchen seemed to shrink with his presence as he sat down wordlessly next to Malfoy at the small kitchen dinette.

Dinner was eaten in near absolute silence. Malfoy seemed to relish the meal, at first coming across teasing, then astounded that what she had prepared was not only edible, but better than anything he had consumed for the past several months he had been in hiding. For the last half of the meal, he was too busy devouring slices of the pastry encrusted tenderloin and braised vegetables to even look up from his plate.

Snape was more reserved than the platinum blonde, his slender fingers using the dulled metal flatware to cut the Beef Wellington into delicate bites. He said nothing, save one word acknowledgements as Hermione offered him more parsnips and to refill his glass of merlot.

At one point, he had sneered at her, one of his black eyebrows arching. Realizing she had been staring at him, her face flushed with heat. She looked back down at her food, just noticing she was only half finished while both men were nearly done with dinner. Her thirst for appreciation, for some sort of recognition that she had done a good job by him had caused her to nearly forget to eat entirely.

Snape stood abruptly, his palms flat on the table on either side of his cleared plate. She looked up at him, waiting mutely, the silence punctured by the continued scraping of a fork on Malfoy's quickly emptying plate.

"This was….satisfactory, Miss Granger," Snape spoke softly, the slightest edge to his silky voice. He raised his wine glass and drank down the remaining scarlet liquid. Pausing only to return the empty flute to the table, he pushed back his chair and walked out of the kitchen.

Lips parted slightly with surprise, Hermione stared at the vacant doorway of Snape's retreat. _Satisfactory?_ That was extremely high praise from the professor, but…

Malfoy's snort brought her attention back around.

"Don't listen to him," Malfoy said between bites of food, crumbs falling from the sides of his mouth. "This is probably the best bloody meal he's had since Potty chased him from the castle. Hell, when did you learn to cook, Granger? Was this part of the whole S.P.E.W. nonsense?"

Hermione glared at him, a sharp retort caught on her tongue, but Malfoy missed it, his concentration once again on his plate. He didn't even look up as she pushed back her chair, sprinting out of the kitchen to follow Snape.

He was a fair way down the darkened hallway, obviously retreating to his lab. She grabbed his upper arm, her fingers tightening around his black silk covered bicep. He came to an abrupt halt, his tall form stiffening as he whipped around to face her.

"Unhand me, Miss Granger," he hissed, glaring down at the young woman in front of him. Her face was nearly ghostly in the heavy shadows of the narrow hallway, her eyes appearing black, yet luminous with the scarcity of light. _Determined, as always._

"You promised."

"Promised?"

"A lesson. Wandless magic. My research…"

"Remove your hand from my person. I will not ask you again," he warned her, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes widened slightly as she realized she still had a firm grip on his arm. She jerked back instantly, the movement nearly causing her to fumble into the wall behind her. Embarrassed, she righted herself to stand tall in front of him, her hands clenched tightly into fists by her sides.

"You promised. If I made dinner tonight, if you enjoyed it, you would teach me. You would show me," she said, her voice losing its waiver and becoming increasingly confident as she continued to speak. "_Satisfactory?_ You finished your plate, had _seconds_, sir. I upheld my part of the bargain, now you need to uphold yours."

She could barely make out his pale face, the fluorescents from the kitchen and firelight from the living room just a faint brush against them in the dim hallway. His silence seemed absolute, and for several minutes all she could hear was the beating of her heart, rhythmic and loud against her ribs.

"Do you believe me forgetful, Miss Granger?" he asked softly.

"No, of course not."

"Do you believe me to be a wizard to not uphold his word?"

She hesitated for only a breath. "I believe…I believe you would uphold your word, sir, if not in a position that you would breach your activities as a spy by doing so."

He made a sound low in his throat. "Then the only problem we have is your impatience."

Her lips parted in surprise and she stared up at him. "I don't understand."

Snape laughed, the sound lacking humor and barreling towards malice. "I promised you tomorrow, you silly little girl. Do you not think I have other pressing matters? Other then helping out an incompetent Gryffindor find her magic 'touch'?"

Her face burned, and without giving thought to the consequences, she jabbed her index finger into the black silk covering the middle of his chest.

"This isn't some childish game, you said so yourself. My nose bleeds, _dear Merlin_, there was even blood in my _mouth_ this morning. I've been looking in your books, the ones that I can open, and I can hardly find anything at all on wandless magic. It doesn't make sense…"

Her next words were lost, swallowed down in surprise and fear as his hand curled tightly around hers, crushing her fingers together. He pulled the offending hand above her head, pushing her hard against the wall behind her, his free hand coiled harshly around her other arm.

"Don't _ever_ point at me again," he snarled, his black eyes flashing dangerously as he glared down at her. His lips pulled into a thin line as he bit back panic. Severus still did not know the extent of her new found power. She had no sense of control, and so far he had determined that her magic was fueled by emotion. Most wandless magic found its path through the witch's hand, perhaps the most familiar path due to prior magic being performed while holding a wand. Far fetched as it might be, he didn't want to take a chance with her accidentally blowing a hole through his chest.

"I…I'm sorry," she whispered, her breathing coming out fast and shallow. Hermione pulled against the grip around her hand above her head, but Snape's fingers only tightened further. "I didn't mean…"

"Of course you didn't. Insufferable little know it all, don't you understand I know more about this than you? I will grant you your intelligence, but you know nothing of this power." He closed his eyes, reining in his emotions. When he glanced down at her again, he felt the tension unfurling in his chest.

"You are dangerous, not just to the boy, not just to me, but to yourself. You have no control, not even a sense of it. I will do what I can to teach you, to instruct you how to restrain the power if nothing else, not just to save you but to keep you from killing everything around you." Severus paused, exhaling steadily. His breath was strong with the merlot he had consumed with dinner and she closed her eyes against the teasing, heady scent. Finally understanding, realizing that he actually feared her was almost too much, and she leaned heavily against the wall at her back.

"There are other things, though, Miss Granger. More dangerous, more pressing, to all of us, the magical community as a whole. Things that, if not done in time, will make all of this a laughable memory."

The dark wizard's name was left unsaid. She knew of whom he spoke, though what it had to do with the lab, she was still trying to understand. Her research that afternoon had been mostly in regards to wandless magic, but there had been something that had weighed on the furthest edges of her consciousness, a brief glimpse of a plan so nefarious she could not let it go unspoken.

"The light bulb is a Muggle invention. It can be found in nearly every Muggle home and institution, usually in mass," Hermione said softly, staring up at him as she kept her voice even.

His eyes widened the smallest fraction, but she could see the reaction, even in the darkness of the narrow hallway. Her lips parted again to speak but his grip loosened from her upper arm, his slender fingers pressing now against her mouth.

"No, say nothing more," he whispered, a strained edge bleeding into his tone. His jaw tight, he stared down at her with his shadowed black eyes. "To go down this path means certain death."

She blinked, understanding his words but not willing to let it go. She was right, but there was so much more, so much she needed to know…

"No, Miss Granger. I will not hesitate to Obliviate you, even though in your current magical state, the consequences, unknown at best, could be disastrous for you."

She turned her face away from him, staring back down the hall towards the living room, the light catching more of her pale features. He let his hand drift with her movement, his fingertips now on the soft flesh of her cheek instead of covering her mouth. He could see in the faint light the wet sheen of her eyes and that she was now biting her lower lip, perhaps in a mixed attempt to stop from speaking further or to hold back her tears.

He sighed, the sound beaten and world weary. If only she had been born with some pure blood, a magical grandparent at the least to save her from the stigma of being a Muggle-born in the shadow of the worst magical war in the history of time. If she had not fallen in with Potter, had not been born with such intellect, such ferocious spirit, if she had not been his brightest, secretly most favored pupil…

Perhaps then he could have saved her. Perhaps then it would not matter, these thoughts, these feeling he could not banish from his traitorous mind.

Severus stared down at her, his black gaze slowly, yet thoroughly taking her in. She was still wearing the sleeveless, plain cotton floor length dress, the stark whiteness of the fabric nearly glowing amongst the shadows. Her feet were still bare, insignificant really, but striking him as odd as her sturdy black leather school shoes were undamaged from battle and sitting next to the antique wardrobe in her room. Not to mention the cold that clung stubbornly to the old farmhouse, the Scottish winter approaching full force had to affect her, as it did him and the boy.

The curly mess of her hair had been pulled back into a loose plait while she had made dinner, but it was now again seeking freedom, wild strands of it springing free around her pale face.

Without thought, his fingertips traced a lazy pattern on her soft skin, across her cheek down to her jaw.

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she arched slightly into his touch, a sound so similar to a moan escaping her parted lips. He stiffened momentarily at the response, and then his fingers dared further, sliding under her jaw to caress the white arch of her neck. His other hand tightened around hers, still held above her head against the wall at her back.

He leaned in nearer to her, angled so his mouth was a breath away from the warm, inviting curve of her throat. This close, he could smell the rose soap she had used in the morning, though the fragrance had dulled somewhat. It was now combined with the mixture of faint sweat from her exertion in the kitchen and an underlying, feminine scent that was all her.

It was this scent that taunted him, made him lose focus on the war, the mission, his responsibilities, everything except for the woman he held tightly in front of him. Something held secret deep within him responded to her, something feral and without regard to rules and boundaries. In this single moment, he wanted nothing more in the world but her.

His eyes closed as he suddenly felt her free hand on the black silk covering his chest. She made no move to push him away, and he realized with faint shock she was touching him willingly.

Severus exhaled against the curve of her throat and felt her shiver. Her touch and response wrenched at him in a way nothing else could have; he had been perilously close to throwing everything to the wind and claiming what he desired. She had pulled him back from that edge.

"Miss Granger," he whispered, his voice nearly inaudible but still holding a trace of his trademark silkiness.

"Y..yes?" She sounded breathy, unsure and frightened. His jaw tightened.

"I feel it important to remind you that I am a dangerous wizard. While I have promised not to hurt you, I ask that you not chase me down any more dark hallways."

Her breathing was still coming too fast, but she tried her best to even it out. His request would have been laughable outside of the situation, but she felt more than heard the serious undercurrent.

Hermione's eyes were closed and she was still leaning heavily against the wall at her back. Her free hand was against Snape's chest, more to steady herself than anything. The hand curled into his fist above her head had since gone numb. She just now noticed it, her thoughts seeming to come together out of a giant fog. Her head was spinning, her stomach seemed to be dancing, and her thighs trembled. The professor surely would have felt this, save he stood chastely at an angle from her; the only touch aside from his hands supporting her was that of his warm breath coming out against her throat.

"Of course," she whispered in reply.

He drew his fingertips down her throat, stepping back from her once his fingers reached her clavicle. His free hand at his side, he was now at a distance to face her. He still held her hand, now between them instead of above her head in his fist. His slender fingers tugged at hers, gently kneading the numbed flesh.

"Tomorrow morning will be your first lesson," he stated softly. "There is nothing to prepare, so do not stay up late researching and taking notes. Sleep is more important; it will give you strength."

She blinked, and then nodded shakily. Her gaze shifted to their hands and her fingers twitched. He grimaced.

"Are you hurt?"

"No, no, I just…" she stopped, swallowing. What could she say? There was so much, and none of it made sense.

"Then I must go. I have work to do," he replied, a hint of an edge returning to his voice. He let go of her hand, his black gaze unwavering but unreadable as he stared down at her. "I'll bring up a vial of Dreamless Sleep in a while."

"Thank you."

He nodded tersely and then turned, stalking down the hallway until the shadows seemed to consume him and she was alone.

She lost track of how long she stood there, trying to pull herself together. She didn't understand this, none of it really, and that bothered her most of all. She was the brains, was she not? The brightest witch of her age? Is that not what they called her? But this was beyond her understanding.

Hermione had been kidnapped, had spent the last several days alone with Draco Malfoy and Professor Snape of all people in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. Lavender's death had awoken a power in her that had not been taught at Hogwarts, that was mentioned in precious few of the books Snape had in this "safe" house. In addition, she was becoming exceedingly close to both her captors. She actually felt pity for the platinum blonde tormentor of her youth, something scarily similar to friendship building between them. As for Snape, he had caused her to rethink everything. He was no longer her most hated professor, not just a Death Eater, spy, killer of Dumbledore…

She bit her lip, shaking her head. No. She had to stay focused. She was without a wand, but she was not without power. So there was a control aspect to this wandless magic; she would learn it. Hermione would absorb everything Snape was willing to teach her. And if needed, she would use it against him.

She pushed off from the wall, walking back towards the living room and kitchen. The large fireplace kept the living room warmer than the rest of the house and she smiled faintly with the welcome rush of heat as she entered the room.

Malfoy looked up, giving her a half grin. He was sitting on one of the overstuffed blue couches, curled up in the corner closest to the fireplace, his legs crossed, and his heels resting on the low wooden coffee table. A large sketchpad was in his lap, different sizes and colors of charcoal pencils and black charcoal stubs lined out on a folded paper towel on the couch cushion next to him.

She nodded at him in silent acknowledgement, walking over to one wall of books to skim the titles.

"I was wondering where you went, Granger."

"I had something to discuss with Professor Snape."

Malfoy made a noise in the back of his throat. "How's that working out for you?"

She waived her hand back at him almost as if shooing away a fly, not bothering to look up from her assessment of the books.

"That great, hey? You know, I do know a few things myself. If you want to run a question or two by me, I'm happy to assist you with my cerebral talents."

Hermione snorted, this time looking over her shoulder to give him her most incredulous looks. He smirked and she rolled her eyes, returning her attention to the stacks of books, pulling out a few leather bound tomes as she continued her search.

"Granger, explain to me the Saslaw Kepler Theorem."

"It's a mixture of Arithmancy and the Muggle study of thermodynamics," she said on a sigh, not bothering to glance up again from her book search. "In its simplest form, it is in regards to a single magical thought, or particle, in orbit around a heavier one."

Hermione's voice was distant even as she recited the theorem to Malfoy from memory. She still had her back to him, tugging another heavy book out from the stack closest to the armchair in the corner of the room.

"To outline the theorem, you need to figure the kinetic energy in relation to the gravitational and centrifugal forces…" she trailed off, finally turning to face Malfoy. The Saslaw Kepler Theorem was high level Arithmancy. It wasn't even discussed at Hogwarts, and therefore even the name of the theorem was not common knowledge to those witches and wizards who were not practicing Arithmancers. Or know-it-alls like her.

"How do you…what does this have to do with anything, Malfoy?" she questioned, her full attention now on the platinum haired wizard.

He returned her hard look, a frown tugging at his pale lips. "To remind you I'm not an idiot, Granger."

She stood, her arms quivering slightly under the weight of the stack of books she was holding. "Okay. Point taken."

She walked over to the couches, taking the one opposite from Malfoy, setting the books down on the low table next to their unfinished chess game.

"What do you know about wandless magic?"

One of his blond eyebrows quirked up in surprise. "You mean, aside from a simple _Accio_ or locking spell?"

"Yes. I mean high level magic, and real, complicated spells performed _without_ a wand," Hermione replied evenly, grabbing the top book off the stack and settling back into the lumpy sofa.

His brow furrowed as he stared at her. "Well. Uh, I know Dumbledore could do some spells without a wand." His face colored slightly with saying the Headmaster's name aloud. "And the dark lord…but you mean truly without a wand?"

"No theory then, Malfoy?" She glanced up from her book. His fingers were curled around a piece of charcoal, but it was raised from the paper as he stared at her.

"Fine, Granger. No, I don't have a theory. Wandless magic isn't exactly taught at the old boarding school, is it?"

"You're right, for some reason it's not."

"Of course I'm right. And why do you care about this anyway? Thinking of storming out of here without a wand? It's not something you can just read up on and then regurgitate at will."

She frowned at him. He smirked back.

"So enough of this. Feel like continuing our game of chess? I was winning."

"Please, Malfoy. You wish. We both suck at chess and you know it. It will probably take us years to finish this one game."

He sighed and she hid her smile by looking back down at the book in her lap, _1074 Properties to Keep in Mind When Choosing a Wand_. Hopefully the battered book had something that would help her.

They spent the evening in near silence save her page turning and scribbling on parchment and his sketching. She estimated it was near midnight when he yawned loudly, closing his sketchpad and gathering up his pencils and charcoal stubs. Snape still had not emerged from his lab.

"Sleep well," she said as he made his way to the stairs. He paused, turning to glance back at her with an indecipherable expression in his gray-blue eyes.

"Yeah. You too."

Hermione watched him ascend the stairs then returned her focus to the new book in her lap, jotting notes with the quill on the parchment scroll spread out on top of the closed book at her side.

It was going to be a long night. Regardless of what Snape said, she was not going into this unprepared.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** I'm not, and never would claim to be J.K. Rowling. She is the queen, and I am but a pawn – now let's play some chess, shall we?

Rating is for language, violence, and my penchant for possible naughtiness. If it does head down that path, I will change the rating accordingly.

**Reviews:** Love them so, so much. Make my day.

**A/N:** I am getting better at the time between chapters, though I'd like to be even more expedient. Here's a wish to life being chaos free! :) Oh, and if you catch the HP Lexicon reference in this chapter, you get to join the HP Nerd Club with me.

**Chapter Eleven**

He lost track of how long he had been standing in the shadows of the hallway watching her sleep. Her small form was curled in a rather unpleasant looking fashion against the edge of the worn sofa, a position that surely would have given his back fits upon waking. A stack of books sat on the low table in front of her, another stack by her feet. A worn, dusty tome was opened across the arm rest; she was currently using it as a pillow.

His fingers coiled around the glass vial of Dreamless Sleep potion in his front jeans pocket. He had meant to give this to her earlier, except, as always it seemed, the plan for the dark lord kept him busy in his lab and he had lost track of the time. Though it seemed that sleep, what he had pretty much ordered her to do when they last spoke, had been the last thing on her mind.

Of course, it shouldn't surprise him that she had ignored his suggestion and gone ahead and researched further. She always thought she knew what was best, even ahead of her professors at times. _Insufferable know-it-all._

He had momentarily debated strolling into the living room and scaring her awake; if there wasn't the possibility of her performing some catastrophic wandless magic in retaliation, he very well would have. As it was, he had either the option to leave her be, or to rouse her gently.

Severus thought briefly on the last choice. If he was completely honest with himself, he knew this was the one he favored. _To kneel down in front of her, stroke the pale softness of her cheek, whisper endearments to her…_

His treacherous mind tried further to convince him. Though there was a conservation charm on the fire crackling in the large fireplace to keep it lit until sunrise, the sleeveless dress she wore was not enough to keep her warm through the night. If the Muggle weather predictor in nearby Banchory was more accurate in his prophecies than Trelawney, there would be a foot of snow on the ground by morning.

_And what about her dreams?_ What if the battle of Hogsmeade once again seeped into those dreams and turned them into nightmares? This was the reason for the vial in his pocket, after all.

His black eyes narrowed slightly, intent now on the rise and fall of her arched torso draped across the open book. Her breathing was quite steady, almost slow. His dark gaze shifted back to her closed eyes and he stared for several moments at the rapid, yet almost indecipherable movement to her eyelids. She was dreaming, but for now it was something completely mundane, if not pleasant. She would be fine, at least for a couple of more hours. The memory of Miss Brown's death was probably secondary now to her new found power with wandless magic and a desire to learn everything she could about it.

His jaw locked. He needed to leave her alone. She was causing him to lose focus at a time the most infinitesimal slip would lead to a highly excruciating death, not to mention failure on behalf of the Order. _On behalf of Dumbledore._

Pausing for only a fraction of a moment, he pulled a clean, green linen handkerchief from his left front jeans pocket, shaking it once to unfold it. Tugging his wand free from where it was tucked under his belt at his hip, he pointed it at the green fabric, silently Transfiguring the small square cloth into a generously sized, soft green quilt. Using his wand, he floated the comforter across the living room, draping it across her curled and sleeping form using magic.

Without further thought, he Apparated from the shadowy hallway directly into his bedroom on the second floor. Checking first to verify the door was still securely locked, he walked over to the rusted, wrought iron bed while tugging free his black silk shirt from where it had been tucked into his jeans. He cast a silent _Incendio_ with his wand, fire leaping to life in the small ancient fireplace in the corner of the room.

The fire provided the only light in the room, casting eerie, flickering shadows at the same time it warmed him. Severus flicked open the two buttons at his collar and then sat on the edge of the bed, watching the fire.

Uneasiness pulled at him, wrenching in his belly like a couple of nifflers at play. Though he was accustomed to this feeling, living over half of his life as spy, the emotion was sometimes too much of a burden to carry. He needed a drink, yet intoxication would bring carelessness. He could use a numbing potion, but this would cause him to lose his objectivity. He could run away from it all, turn his back on the Order, but then the dark lord would win. And destroy anything and everything ever filled with an ounce of happiness or light.

Though he had his doubts he would make it out of this war alive, he knew the alternative, the death of all that which was good and pure, was a world he could not fathom. Though he would serve as the right hand wizard to the dark lord in his conquered world, Severus knew it would be filled with gloominess and pain as the mad wizard continued his quest for ultimate power. There would be no place for the young, brilliant woman lying on the sofa downstairs, or the creative, if not damaged blond boy sleeping in the room next to his.

The future of our people depends on the children, Severus. No pure-blood is born hating Muggles and Muggle-borns. Hatred is taught to them, bred into their minds well before the time they pass the gates of Hogwarts as first years. Hatred is what brought Riddle into power, hatred is what killed Harry's parents, and hatred is what will bring our children to destroy each other. Knowledge and love can change this. If we cultivate it, it will grow in the children. They will know a future without war, without hate.

Albus' words would forever haunt him, echoing through him in the old man's fatherly, cheerful voice. Severus protected Draco because it was possible he would have a chance of a life free of this centuries old hate, this prejudice that was taught by witches and wizards thirsty to prove themselves superior to others of equal if not superior magical power. It was a new, beautiful humanity in which Severus could hardly imagine, but one that he had dreamed and yearned for so long ago. Even if he could not know it first hand, he would ensure that Draco would.

_And of course, Miss Granger._ He would make sure she would live through this, go on with life. Perhaps she would marry, have children, no question excelling at whatever career path she chose for herself.

He sighed, the sound low and world weary. Severus leaned back into the stiff mattress, his jean clad legs still hanging off of the edge of the bed, the soles of his tall leather boots flush against the worn wooden floor planks. Wand still curled tightly in his fist, pressed against his thigh, he stared up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of it all. Sleep caught him unaware.

The light seemed to burn through his eyelids, the colors similar to that of the fire. He awoke with a start, nearly bolting from the bed. The exhaustion of the past several days had finally caught up with him. Slumber had overtaken him without his clearly expressed intent. It was a disturbing thought, indeed.

He sat up on the bed, rolling his shoulders slightly to ease the ache as he did a cursory visual check of the room. Unsurprisingly, his wand was still resting at his side, his fingers curled loosely around the base.

The fireplace held little more than charred embers now, the sunlight streaming in behind the moth eaten green lace curtains now brightening the room beyond the light provided by the dying fire. Severus could hear the distant sound of water; from the direction of the noise, it sounded as if Draco was showering in water closet located down the hall.

Severus sat silently on the edge of the bed, focusing beyond the sound of running water. The sound of birds chirping or cawing at each other was absent; obviously the Scottish winter had now arrived full force and those few birds remaining at the end of this October had now left or hid until the chilly season's end.

There was an abject stillness to the air beyond the absence of the birds. Though the structure of the farmhouse was solidly built, impressively so for a Muggle building, Severus could generally hear any activity going on throughout the majority of the house. Even though he reinforced the building threefold with magical protection, he did not change this aspect. He considered it beneficial if at any time this safe house was compromised that he would be able to hear it from his bedroom.

There were no sounds from the kitchen, no noise of plates or silverware clattering. There was no additional sound of running water from a shower, toilet or sink. No sound or feel of magic, wandless or otherwise.

So where was the girl?

Severus stood up from the bed, stalking over to the door. He paused for only a moment with one hand curled around the dirty, antique crystal doorknob, his other clutching his wand. He did not want to give into paranoia, but then, it had saved his life many a time.

He strode silently down the dim hallway, the tattered carpeting muffling the sound of his boots. He stopped at the top of the stairs, listening again.

He could hear a scratching sound, followed by the crinkle of parchment, perhaps the turning of a page in one of his books. A soft sigh as the scratching stopped abruptly. This was followed by a whisper, the words indecipherable from his position. The sound of the quill scratching furiously against parchment started up again.

Severus descended the stairs slowly, taking in the scene with efficient thoroughness as he entered the living room.

The yellowed lace curtains on both windows had been looped together, knotted in a fashion as so no ties were needed to hold them back and so the thick, grime covered glass was visible. Frost spider-webbed across the panes, and snow gathered at the base of each window. Despite the layer of dirt, copious amounts of sunlight streamed through, giving the room an overall ethereal glow despite its battered couches and haphazard stacks of leather-bound books.

The girl sat on the couch directly in front of the dying fire in the large fireplace, her legs folded under her and an oversized book draped across her lap. To her side sat another book, a pile of parchment, ink pot and quill resting on the closed flat cover.

On the same couch was the green quilt, folded neatly and resting on the opposite corner from her. From her appearance, he surmised that she had not moved much since he had seen her last.

She was still wearing the sleeveless, plain cotton floor length dress from yesterday. Her hair had finally pulled itself completely free of the confines of the braid and was now a curly halo around her pale face. The sunlight caressed her where she sat on the couch, and he caught glimpses of red and gold in her usually plain brown mess of hair. Her bare arms seemed to glow in the light and he wondered absently if the sunlight brought her any warmth in the chilly room.

"Miss Granger."

Her gaze jerked up, her fingers tightening around the quill, paused in mid sentence. She had been completely absorbed in the book draped across her lap, its contents describing healing magic and some spells without utilization of a wand. The author was Dilys Derwent, a Healer with St. Mungo's for several decades and then Headmistress of Hogwarts up until 1768. The leather bindery was damaged, and some of the pages had been ripped out, but otherwise it was an engaging read.

Hermione stared at her former professor, her lips parted in surprise. She had been so thoroughly engrossed in her research she had not heard his entrance into the room. She wondered how long he had been standing there at the base of the stairs, watching her scribbling furiously and talking to herself.

She blinked, his appearance striking her. He was still wearing the black jeans, black silk button down shirt, and tall black boots from yesterday, but since she had last seen him, his usual taciturn façade had unraveled. The black silk was wrinkled, the shirt un-tucked from his jeans and the top buttons undone, revealing the pale flesh of his throat and the hollow of his collarbone. His long black hair was free of bindings, brushing across his shoulders, several strands of it falling rakishly across one eye. He held his wand low at his right side, his free hand resting against the doorframe as he looked down at her with a sneer.

"Sir?"

"Sleep well?"

Shocked at the seemingly gentle inquiry from Snape of all people, she fumbled with the book, closing it and setting it on top of the stack on the low table in front of her.

"I…yes, I suppose. No dreams this time."

"Hmm. What time did you make it up to bed, Miss Granger?"

She moistened her lower lip with her tongue, a nervous gesture. "I had adequate sleep."

He snorted, pushing off the doorframe and walking into the room. He passed by the sofa, walking over to the nearest window while tucking his wand into his jeans at his back. He slid his palm against the frigid glass, the warmth of his hand melting the frost and momentarily clearing his view. Outside a blanket of snow covered everything as far as he could see.

She stared at his back, wondering with apprehension where this conversation was going.

"Did I not say that sleep was more important than anything? To keep your strength?" Snape questioned, his black gaze still surveying the wintry landscape.

"My strength is not a concern, sir."

He turned abruptly, facing her again. "Is that so?" He paused, walking into the middle of the room, passing behind her at the back of the weathered blue sofa. "So you're ready for your first lesson in wandless magic then, child?"

Excitement trembled through her, outweighing any sort of trepidation. She set the closed book, parchment pile, inkwell and quill on the table in front of her next to the tall stack of books, and then stood, turning to face Snape.

"Yes, of course. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," he shot back at her, his voice low. "Did I tell you to stand, Miss Granger?"

She stared at him for a moment, and then sat back down on the couch, the position forcing her to crane her neck to watch him from where he was standing behind the sofa.

"Don't do anything I don't ask of you, do not talk unless you are responding to a question with a direct, honest answer or this lesson is over. Understood?"

She nodded in response and he made a sound low in his throat.

"Answer me out loud, Miss Granger."

"Yes, yes, I understand."

"Good." He walked around the sofa, side stepping the low table with its tall stack of books, her writing materials and the unfinished chess game. Her gaze tracked his movements and she unconsciously shifted further into the lumpy cushion at her back when he came to a stop in front of her.

"Explain to me, Miss Granger, what is magic?"

The question caught her off guard momentarily. She hadn't been asked such a basic, forward question since her first year at Hogwarts.

"Magic is what sets humans in the Wizarding world apart from their Muggle counterparts. Magic is…"

"No! Do not quote to me from some textbook! I do not want to hear Stephen Vander Ark's views on magic, nor do I want the competitive thesis from Linsenmayer and Worley to cross your tongue. I am asking _you_, Miss Granger. Do not use the words of others to answer this question. What is magic?"

Her mouth opened a fraction, then shut again as she stared up at him, her brown eyes wide. _What is magic?_ It was a simple question, but to answer it without referring to written word, instead to look inside herself for the meaning of such a broad, complicated…

"Magic?" she whispered, suddenly feeling exposed and unsure. He sneered at her.

"Yes, _magic_. Surely you've heard of it?"

She blinked, and then frowned, his venomous taunting unleashing her Gryffindor pride. Her mouth twisted in what she hoped was a mirror of his vile expression.

"Ah, yes, _magic_. Something you're capable of, Malfoy is capable of, and even me, a hapless little Muggle-born Gryffindor," Hermione answered sharply, her hands curling into fists, nails digging into her palms.

He snorted. "That's a _failing_ response, Miss Granger. I would expect more from your supposedly brilliant mind."

Her face burned red with the insinuation she was anything less than outstanding in academics.

"Magic is a noun and a verb. Regardless of blood status, magic is fundamental to the day to day thoughts and tasks of witches and wizards."

"Can you live without it?"

She stared up at him, Snape still hovering over her from where he stood at the edge of the couch. _Live without magic_? "I lived the first eleven years of my existence unaware that magic existed, sir."

"That was not a direct, honest answer," he shot back, his eyes narrowing. She moistened her lips with a quick dart of her tongue, her expression faltering and causing her to look down at her loosened fists.

"I….no, oh, I honestly don't know." Hermione glanced back up at him, anxious at being so forthright with her former professor. She thought she saw his face softening, but it was so instantaneous she could have been mistaken.

"It's a part of me," she whispered, looking back down at her hands. "I can't imagine not going another day of my life without a spell, without mixing a potion or creating a charm. It's like something living in me that I can't deny. I won't deny."

She lifted her right hand, her fingers uncurling so she could view her palm. "My hand, there is this emptiness, an itchiness. It knows the loss of my wand. Even that in itself has to be magic, right?"

She looked up from her hand to Snape again. Now his expression was unreadable, his black gaze sharp on her.

"Where do you feel magic, Miss Granger?"

"Sir?"

He sighed, the sound a mix of exhaustion and irritation. "When you are about to cast a spell, where do you feel the energy? Be specific."

She blinked again, this whole line of questioning catching her off guard. These were not book questions, not puzzles to be solved or areas in which she could impress others with her expansive knowledge. He was inquiring beyond that.

Her right hand rose without thought to her throat, her cold fingertips touching the pale skin at her neck. She was looking at him again, but her gaze was unseeing as she gave over to a combination of instinct and internal discovery.

Her fingers brushed past her collarbone, drifting from bare flesh to the white, soft fabric across her sternum. She pressed her palm to her chest in the valley between her breasts, closing her eyes on a shudder.

"It starts here. For the most part anymore, I don't really think on it, as the spells are on the spot, both from experience and defensive need." She shivered slightly, her fingers curling into the cloth. "But this is where it starts, this is where it burns."

"Do you remember what I told you about wandless magic after your first nosebleed whilst in the kitchen?" he asked her, his voice low.

She opened her eyes again, somewhat dazed from her thoughts and his sudden change of discussion. He was still staring at her with that damned unreadable expression.

"That we all can use wandless magic on some level, but that the wand is necessary to focus it, make it more powerful. That without it, we would not have much more magic then that of a Squib."

"Go on," he prodded her in his silky voice.

"The wand is a magical barrier as well. It retains some of the residual magic of each spell cast by the witch or wizard."

"Correct," he said, his tone reminding her of when he was her most hated professor of Potions. "A simple _Accio_ or locking spell done without a wand will leave a trace of magic in the caster, but not enough to be harmful or even noticeable. More complicated spells, if the witch or wizard can even perform them without the wand, will cause more _significant_ side effects."

The bleeding from her nose and mouth, though he left it unsaid.

"Very few witches or wizards have this ability, but it seems the fates have a twisted sense of humor and unlocked this power in you of all people, Miss Granger."

She frowned at him and he sneered in response, turning away from her to pace in front of the large fireplace.

"You couldn't contain your mouth in my classroom, what makes you think can control this?" he continued on. "If reason drove you more than your own emotions, you would have been sorted into Ravenclaw. As it was, you have the colors of pride and ego, a true Gryffindor through and through."

"Then let me prove it!" Hermione nearly jumped up from the couch then, her hands now curled back into fists. "I know I can do this!"

He stopped his pacing, turning back to look at her. Several moments went by in silence as he scrutinized her, his pale lips pulled thin.

Severus twisted back towards the fireplace, picking up one of the many candles lined up across the stone fireplace mantel. He strode back over to her, setting the stubby beige candle down on the tall stack of books on the table in front of her.

"Stand up."

She eyed him warily, and then stood, glancing from his tall, black clad form to the half melted candle.

"I want you to light this candle."

She stared at him in disbelief, a short bark of a laugh escaping her mouth. "Seriously?"

"You think I'm a humorist now, Miss Granger?" he asked her darkly. He walked around the table, coming to stand beside her. She forced herself to hold her ground, still facing ahead.

"Of course not. Nothing would be further from the truth," she responded back gruffly.

"This is your first lesson. Take it or leave it."

She turned slightly, looking up at him. He was standing much too close, clearly invading her personal space. It made her uneasy; the fact that he was quite aware of its impact on her only added anger into her mix of emotions.

"So tell me what to do."

"It will be like casting any other spell. The only difference is how you control it. You don't have a wand, so there will be nothing to absorb the residual magic. You will need to be conscious of this and let the spell end thoroughly. Push all of the magic out."

Her brow furrowed. "How do I do this?"

"Concentrate on it. Feel the magic. You said you can feel it, did you not?"

She moved to turn away from him, but his fingers curled around her bare upper arm, the action stopping her.

Hermione stared up at him, swaying slightly. His black gaze was so intense it was almost unnerving.

"Yes," she whispered, damning the wavering tone of her voice. "It will burn in my chest, then work through my arm to release out of my wand. Or my hand." Her fingers flexed unconsciously on the thought, eager for magic.

His grip eased on her arm, his fingertips smoothing down her exposed skin, pausing in the hollow of her elbow before moving down to her hand. His fingers slid into her moist palm, moving to entwine with hers as his thumb pressed into the flesh between her thumb and index finger. The seemingly innocent caress was oddly arousing and she felt gooseflesh rise up on her bare arms.

Their gazes were locked, his face tilted close to hers. Her breathing was suddenly quite unsteady, but for the moment she didn't care if he was aware of it. The unexpected desire to have him lean into her just another inch and press his mouth against hers had just superceded everything else.

He swallowed, his eyes shifting from hers to her mouth and back again.

"Control," he spoke, his voice husky. "You must have control now, pet. Now light the candle."

He released her hand, and she faltered for only an instant, the sudden enchantment of the situation lost. She blinked, wondering for a moment what had just happened.

She turned her focus back on the squat candle, her fingers flexing again. _Concentrate. Focus. Control…_

"_Incendio_," she spoke aloud, this time her voice firm. Nothing.

"Again."

"_Incendio_." Still nothing. She felt it, her body trying, the magic swirling….

"Again."

"_Incendio_." Sparks, but no fire.

"Are you even trying, Miss Granger?" he asked her in a low drawl.

"_Incendio_!" she yelled this time, her fingers straightened stiffly over the candle. The blackened wick seared, a flame all but bursting upwards, nearly singeing her hand before she could pull back.

"Let it finish, push it all out!" he ordered her, watching with a mixture of amazement and satisfaction.

"Bloody hell!"

She had been so focused, so determined that the exclamation sent shocks of terror like ice crystals down her spine. Hermione turned blindly, her hands outstretched instinctively.

Severus watched in horror as Draco was lifted off his feet and thrown backwards into the staircase behind him. He reacted instantly, hurrying over to the sprawled form of the blond boy while pulling his wand free from where it had been tucked into his jeans.

Draco was slumped against the stairs near the base of the staircase. When Severus reached him, he knelt down on the step closest to his head.

Draco stared up at him, his gray-blue eyes wide with shock. Consciousness was a good sign.

"What the hell was that?" Draco questioned on a strangled whisper. "Did I see what I thought I saw?"

"Are you hurt?" Severus demanded, ignoring his questions. "Can you move?"

Draco stretched out both of his legs and did the same with his arms, verifying everything was still attached. He shifted to sit up, and then groaned, touching the back of his head.

"Is he okay?" the girl questioned from behind him. For the moment, he disregarded her.

"Stay still," Severus said, this time his voice calmer, almost soothing. He raised his wand, drawing it in a steady circle around the boy's head as he whispered the diagnostic spell. A faint blue light streamed out of his wand then, and Severus sighed, leaning against the wall behind him.

"You're not concussed, but you have one hell of a headache coming on. I'll get you a potion for it."

"I…I'm sorry about that, Malfoy."

Both men shifted their attention back into the living room and to the bushy haired woman standing innocently in front of the couch, looking far too harmless for what she had just done.

"Merlin's balls, Granger, what in the bloody hell _was_ that? How did you…how in the hell did you _do_ that? Wandless?" Malfoy was staring at her like she had grown a third head, the incredulousness in his voice bordering on hysteria. "And the fire…_how_…?"

_The fire._ Severus turned thoughtful. By all rights, she should have burst the boy into flames. She had been finishing a fire spell, had been startled by all rights. Yet she somehow made the switch and hit the boy with some sort of stunning hex instead. It was a surprisingly focused shift and he was curious on how she had accomplished it.

She opened her mouth to speak when there were suddenly three sharp knocks at the door, the sound magically echoing throughout the house. The entire front door turned yellow, the color shimmering as if mixed with flakes of gold.

Severus' black gaze shifted from the enchanted door back to the young woman. She was stiff, her hands curled into fists, her eyes wide with fear of the unknown as she stared at glowing door.

"We have a visitor, it seems," Severus spoke calmly.

Hermione glanced back at Snape where he sat next to Malfoy on the stairs. Malfoy was still rubbing the base of his skull absently; otherwise, the platinum blonde appeared undisturbed by the thought of what was on the other side of the doorway. Snape looked moderately relaxed as well, his wand still out but held loosely in a downwards fashion in his hand.

"Well, let's not keep him waiting, shall we?" Snape shifted to stand, walking at a leisurely pace across the living room. He paused midway, their eyes locking again.

"And Miss Granger? Please try not pitching anyone else across the room. It's not exactly hospitable behavior," he warned lightly, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Her heart beating rapidly against her ribcage, she watched as Snape touched the tip of his wand against the doorknob, whispering an incantation she could not hear. Her only consolation at that moment was she knew she was not as powerless as she had thought she'd be without her wand. Whatever, whoever was on the side of that door would not cause her harm without a fight.

Hermione held onto that thought as the door opened and their guest entered the house.


End file.
